Master and Fool (5 page)

"As charming
as ever, I see." Maybor sat down. When Baralis made no motion to sit, he
said, "Stay where you are and you give me no choice but to shout my news
all over the tavern."

"News!"
Baralis' voice was scathing. "The petty intelligences of a fugitive on
the run do not count as news to me." Maybor was not in the least affected
by this tirade. Calmly he drummed his fingertips against the wood. "If you
didn't come here to listen to what I have to say, then I am forced to conclude
that you came to see my handsome face, instead."

"As ugly as your
face is, Maybor, it still might be the greatest of your charms."

Maybor beamed.
"I'm glad you think so, as I'm hoping to pass my features down in the
blood."

Baralis felt the
skin on his cheeks flush. He had a sudden, overpowering sensation of foreboding.
As his stomach constricted, the world shifted and refocused. The Brimming
Bucket turned from tavern to snake pit. Maybor changed from drunken fool to
fiend. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my
dear Baralis, that in less than seven months time I shall be a grandfather.
Melliandra is with child and-"

"No!"

"Oh, yes. The
child is the duke's. The marriage was consummated."

"You are
lying."

"Why,
Baralis, you're trembling. I thought you would be pleased."

Baralis, annoyed
at showing weakness, drew breath before moving close to Maybor. "Your
daughter is a whore who has rutted with every man who crossed her path. Don't
expect either me or the good people of Bren to believe a single word of what
you say."

Maybor reached out
and grabbed Baralis' robe close to the throat. "My daughter was a virgin
when she married the duke."

Baralis was aware
that the noise in the tavern had died down. He was also aware that two
well-built men had moved from their position at the bar to the top stair
leading down to the fire-well. The only movement was from a sicklooking cat
padding through the ale toward the fire.

"I wouldn't
be so sure that Melliandra was a virgin if I were you, Maybor," Baralis
said slowly. "She certainly showed me a few new tricks when I had
her."

Baralis saw the knife
flash. By the time it raked against his cheek, a drawing was on his lips. He
let it build on his tongue while he pulled away from the table. The two men
behind had moved to the second stair. Maybor remained seated; he seemed content
to have drawn blood.

"Your lies
will not win in the end, Baralis," he said. "Melliandra's son will
have Bren to himself."

Baralis didn't
even acknowledge the words. He stepped upon the first stair of the fire-well,
and then let the sorcery out. Beneath his palms the air shimmered. It crackled
with a blue light: a charged streak of lightning aimed straight at the
beer-covered floor. With his back to the room only Maybor, the two old men, and
the cat saw it flash. Baralis spun round as the ale began to sizzle.

One of the old men
screamed first. Then everyone began to scream--one voice indistinguishable from
another. The smell of hops was carried on the warm ripple of air that hit
Baralis' back. The two men who had moved from the bar made no attempt to stop
him. Baralis felt the familiar wave of weakness. People rushed past him toward
the fire-well, shock on their faces, eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze. He
had to get away from here, to get back to the palace. There was one thing he
must do, however. Weary though he was, he formed a second drawing as he walked
across the room.

A compulsion
weaved its way through the air, fine as sea spray yet wide enough to cover
thirty people. It settled like dust and was drawn into the lungs like a
fragrance. The very air itself became a message, and it was quickly translated
by the blood. After Baralis left, no one would remember his passing. He would
be a mysterious man in black, nothing more. Every person in the tavern would
give a different description of him and no two tellings would be the same. He
could not risk his identity becoming known.

By the time he
reached the door, he could barely walk. Outside he stumbled, legs buckling
under him, heart racing ahead. A man with a mule loaded with cabbages stood in
the street watching him.

"Take me to
the palace," he murmured. "And I will make you a rich man." Even
then, when nothing seemed left, he squeezed forth enough to put a compulsion
behind the words. It nearly killed him.

The last thing
Baralis saw before he fell into darkness were two baskets full of cabbages
being thrown onto the road.

Maybor wasn't
entirely sure what had just happened. In the small area of the fire-well all
hell had been let loose, yet he had remained untouched by it. The two old men
lay slumped against their table, hair on end, feet and ankles blackened as if
burned. The cat lay dead on the ale-washed floor. Its paws were still smoking.
All around him people were fussing and panicking and muttering about a man in
black. It was time to get out of here. Swinging his feet from the footstool to
the floor, Maybor stood up and pushed his way toward the door.

Jack was beginning
to hate herbs-particularly the smelly ones.

He was waiting in
the darkened storeroom, barely moving, barely breathing, while Stillfox dealt
with his unexpected visitor on the other side of the door. Bunches of mint and
rosemary hung above Jack's head, tangling in his hair and tempting him to
sneeze. He'd been here for quite a while now, and his left leg was beginning to
cramp. He couldn't risk stretching it out, though, so with teeth firmly
gritted, his mind searched out diversions.

Frallit used to
say that the best way to stop cramp was to strike the offending limb with a
good-sized plank of wood. Jack had once been the unlucky recipient of this
"cure" and had quickly learned never to claim cramp in Frallit's
hearing again. Jack smiled at the memory. They were good days.

Or were they? The
smile left his face: could he honestly say he'd been happy at Castle Harvell?
He had a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and a measure of security
about his future, but was he happy? People whispered behind his back, naming
him a bastard and his mother a whore. As a mere apprentice he was treated badly
by everyone around him, and Frallit was not the kindly father- figure that his
memory seemed intent on creating. He was nothing more than a sadistic vengeful
bully. And Jack bore the scars to prove it.

No, Castle Harvell
wasn't some wonderful peaceful haven where worries and heartache simply didn't
exist. It was filled with people who allowed him no freedom, who beat the will
from his mind and drained the strength from his body. And he should never have
allowed himself to look back at it through a romantic haze of longing. The past
was all it was good for.

Jack was strangely
exhilarated by these thoughts; there was power in them. Why hadn't he seen all
this before? Then, from the kitchen, he heard a word that stopped all thoughts
dead:

"Melliandra."

Jack was sure the
name was hers-he heard it often enough in his dreams. Without moving as much as
a finger's breadth, Jack trained every sense and focused every cell upon the
wood-paneled door separating him from Stillfox and his uninvited guest.

Stillfox was
speaking: "Who can say what Catherine will do to-" The scrape of iron
poker against grate cut off the end of the sentence.

Jack cursed all
things metal.

"Well, I
wouldn't like to be in her shoes," said the stranger.

Did he mean
Catherine or Melli?

"Ah,
well," Stillfox said, "we have our own troubles to worry about. I
hear our generals travel to the Wall today . . . " Jack got the feeling
that Stillfox was deliberately changing the subject.

A week after he'd
fast come to stay with the herbalist, Jack had told him a shortened version of
his life since leaving Castle Harvell. He had been very selective with the
details-no one would ever know about Tarissa's betrayalbut he had confided to
Stillfox about Melli. He had told him who she was, how they had met, and how
they had come to be separated in Helch.

Even before the
story was free from his lips, Stillfox had told him the news. "Maybor's
daughter is to marry the duke of Bren."

On hearing those
words, Jack felt a confusion of emotions: relief that she was safe, wonder at
how she had come to end up with the duke and, if he were honest, disappointment
that she had finally succumbed to convention and married a man with position
and wealth. He was jealous, too. Melli had been his to protect, his dream had
been to save her. All gone now. A duchess in a fine palace needed saving from
nothing except false flattery.

There had been no
word of her since.

Until now.
Stillfox's uninvited guest had brought news of Melli's marriage and, judging
from the few snatches of conversation that Jack had managed to hear, things did
not sound good.

Jack willed the
stranger to leave. He needed to talk to Stillfox, to find out if Melli was all
right. The ointment on his glass burns itched with gleeful intent. The
storeroom began to seem impossibly small and confining. Herb dust choked in his
throat, and the darkness fueled his fears. The idea that Melli could be in
danger worked upon his brain like a poison. The longer he waited, the wilder
his thoughts became. Had the duke decided to rid himself of his new bride? Had
Baralis somehow discredited Melli? Or had Kylock abducted her in a fit of
jealous rage?

At last the
kitchen door banged shut. Jack was in the kitchen before the shutters stopped
rattling. The light stung his eyes. Stillfox was leaning against the fireplace.
He looked a little stiff, as if his position were posed.

"Sorry to
keep you in the storeroom for so long, Jack. There's no getting rid of
Garfus."

"What did he
say about Melli?" Jack hardly recognized his own voice. It was cold,
commanding.

"Why, Jack,
give me a minute to get settled and I'll tell you all he said."

"Tell me
now."

Stillfox made time
for himself by raking through the ashes then pulling up chair. Finally he
spoke. "Nine of Annis' best generals are heading to Highwall to assist in
coordinating the invasion."

Despite his
determination to learn about Melli, Jack couldn't help but ask, "Invasion
of what?"

The herbalist
shrugged. "Bren, of course."

"Why `of
course'? Why not invade the kingdoms, or try and rout Kylock's forces on the
Halcus field?"

"Because Bren
will soon belong to Kylock."

Jack felt a single
tremor pass down his spine. "I thought the duke's marriage had put an end
to that."

Stillfox tried to
backtrack. "Ah well, when he marries Catherine it's as good as his. And
Highwall isn't the sort of city to split hairs in matters of war."

He was lying.
Self-righteous anger-so briefly tasted earlier while he thought of Castle
Harvell-began to build within Jack. Stillfox was keeping something from him. He
was playing him for a fool. "What happened between Melli and the
duke?"

Stillfox looked
nervous. "Jack, I have my reasons for keeping things from you-"

"Reasons!
I
don't want to hear your reasons. I want to hear the truth."

"You're not
ready to run away to Bren yet. Your training has barely started." Stillfox
took a step forward.

Jack stepped
toward the door. "You are not my keeper, Stillfox. My life is my own
responsibility, and I'll have no one deciding what is and isn't right for me to
hear." Jack was trembling. Anger was flowing through him and he made no
effort to control it. "Now either tell me what happened to Melli, or as
Borc is my witness I will walk out this door and find out for myself."

Stillfox raised
his arm. "Jack, you don't understand-" Jack's hand was on the latch.
"No. You're the one who doesn't understand, Stillfox. I've had a bellyful
of lies, they've destroyed everything I ever had-I'm sick to the death of them.
And today I've finally heard one too many." As Jack spoke he thought of
Tarissa, Rovas, and Magra: they were all liars. Even his mother had practiced
deceit. Who was worse, he wondered: people who lied outright like Rovas and
Tarissa, or people who kept the truth to themselves like his mother and
Stillfox?

Jack brought down
the latch with his fist. He couldn't really see the difference.

"Jack! Don't
go," cried the herbalist, rushing forward. "I'll tell you
everything."

Opening the door,
Jack said, "Too late now, Stillfox. I doubt if I'd believe you
anyway." Stepping out into the warm summer rain, he slammed the door
behind him. He set a course to meet with the high road. If he was lucky, he'd
reach Annis by dusk.

Tavalisk had just
come from his counting house where he'd been counting out his money. Such a
trip always served to reassure him. Gold was the ultimate feather
pillowwhenever one had to fall back on it, one could be sure of a cushioned
blow. The archbishop's stockpile of gold was the nearest thing he had to a
family; it was always there to comfort him, it asked no questions and told no
lies, and it would never ever die and leave him helpless.

Tavalisk did not
remember his real family fondly. His mother might have indeed brought him into
the world, but she chose both the place and the circumstance badly.

Born in a beggar's
hospice in Silbur, his earliest memory was watching his mother's pig die of
swine fever. It just lay in the rushes amidst its own filth and willed itself
to death. Tavalisk remembered scraping around in the dirt to bring it acorns,
but the creature refused to eat them. It simply stayed in its comer and never
made a sound. Tavalisk had loved that pig, but when it let itself die, making
no effort to save itself, he turned against it. He beat the last breath out of
it with a warming brick he'd snatched from the hearth.