Master and Fool (55 page)

Quain's hand came
to rest upon his shoulder. "Aye. You're her lad. I knew it the moment I
set my eyes upon you." There was longing in his voice as he spoke.
"She was a brave lass."

Jack nestled close
to him. Finally there were answers. He knew why his mother had changed her
name, why she climbed the battlements every morning to search the faces of
strangers, and why she lied about her past. Fear had been the one defining force
in his mother's life, and Larn had been the cause of it.

She lived
with
fear,
but she lived
for
vengeance. The oath she swore to destroy the temple
was so strong it had outlived her. Perhaps it had even destroyed her. Still,
her work was done now: Larn was gone and she could rest easy in her grave.

Jack looked up at
Quain. "Why did you wait to tell me this? I might never have come to
you."

"Jack, I know
the sea. It can lull a man as surely as if he were a baby in a crib. When your
eyes can't see the shore and your feet can't feel the earth, the only thing
that matters is the journey itself. A man needs to get back on dry land again
before he can see things in their proper perspective. I figured it would be the
same with you. A few hours on solid earth and you'd work it out on your
own."

"But there
are still some things I don't understand."

"I've told
you all I know." Quain patted Jack's shoulder. "Pour us some more
rum, lad. It's time we toasted your mother's memory--questions without answers
can wait until tomorrow."

Jack stood up,
filled both glasses to the brim, and handed one to the captain. Quain was
right: tonight should be a celebration.

So that evening
aboard
The Fishy Few
two men toasted and drank, swapped stories and
histories, and laughed and wept until dawn.

It was dawn. The
light coming in from the shutters was steaming with mist from the lake. It was
bitterly cold. Melli didn't think she had ever been so cold in her life. The
winters at Castle Harvell were nothing compared to this. The storm had raged
for six days. Today the sky was clear.

Ice had formed on
the damp northern wall of her room. The cup of water by her bed was frozen. Her
breath plumed white in front of her face and beneath the covers; her body
wouldn't stop shaking. Freezing gusts of air frisked around the room. Cold
blasts from the chimney fought with thin drafts from the windows, lifting
curtains, rattling furniture, and sweeping the dust from under the bed.

Melli was
nose-deep in covers. She badly wanted to relieve herself, but she knew from
experience just how cold it was out there. Besides, her waterglass wouldn't be
the only thing that was frozen, and she didn't fancy peeing over a thin layer
of ice. She'd wait until the guards brought her a new pot. It was actually
colder now than during the storm. Oh, the wind had blown up a terrible fuss,
sending snowflakes flurrying down the chimney and breaking the catches on the
metal shutters as easily as if they were wood. But at least while the air was
moving it was too busy to freeze your toes.

And your nose and
your cheeks and your eyelids. Could one's eyelids freeze? she wondered. Might
they just seize up, leaving one's sights caught in midblink? Alarmed by this
thought, Melli pulled the blankets up right over her face. Better to suffocate
than risk freezing eyelids.

It was really
quite amazing how much warmer it was beneath the covers. Her little pot-belly
was as good as a stove. Nearly seven months now, she guessed-keeping track of
time had never been one of her strong points. She'd always had servants to do
that for her.

No servants now,
though. She had two, sometimes three, guards and old no-teeth herself, Mistress
Greal. Metalhehned, foul-smelling, and blade-brandishing as the guards were,
Melli infinitely preferred them to Mistress Greal. The guards were silent,
courteous-if you could call a man pointing a spike at your throat courteous-and
blissfully disinterested. Mistress Greal, however, was like a dog who'd got a
bone and wouldn't let go. She sneered, prodded, insulted, and was constantly on
the
lookout for some other luxury to take away. It seemed that candles,
heat, floor mats, supper, and fresh water just weren't enough. Now Melli had to
wear the same clothes for weeks on end, wash in freezing lake water, gnaw bones
that looked like they'd been chewed on by packs of dogs, and sleep under
blankets coarse enough to try a saint.

Melli had found
she could adapt to anything that Mistress Greal threw at her. Despite
everything her pregnancy was going well, and except for a little swelling in
her ankles and a back that constantly ached, she was actually growing stronger
by the day. Weeks merged into months and autumn gave way to winter, but every
time she felt a tiny shift within her stomach it gave her reason to carry on.

Melli liked being
pregnant. It meant she wasn't alone. She hugged her belly and talked to her
child and promised him or her that she'd escape before it was born. It wasn't
an idle promise, either. She knew exactly what Kylock wanted from her and she wasn't
prepared to give it. She wasn't going to let Kylock use her body to wash his
sins away. What he had done could never be forgiven. Seven days ago he had
ordered the massacre of five thousand men. The Highwall army was beaten, and he
could have disarmed or imprisoned them. But no, their throats had been slit,
their bodies mutilated, and their remains left to freeze upon the southeastern
plains of Bren.

Kylock was a
monster and he should have been strangled at birth. Melli was sick of playing
his twisted games of sin and repentance, sick of being the apple of such a
distorted eye. She was going to escape. She knew her child was marked for
death: Baralis would never allow Bren's rightful heir to live past the
birthing. Kylock wasn't interested in the child-he wanted her-but she was
damned if she was going to wait around for the next two months and then just
deliver herself up like a gamebird on a platter. She would be no one's rite of
absolution.

A sound came from
behind the door. Melli pulled back the covers in time to see Mistress Greal
make her entrance. The good lady was dressing like a queen these days: furs,
brocaded silks, gold chains around her scrawny neck. She probably looted the
chambers of all the noblemen Kylock had tortured then killed. Anyone in the
city who spoke a word against Kylock was likely to end up dead.

"Any news of
my father?" demanded Melli.

"M'lady,"
countered Mistress Greal sharply. "Any news of my father, m'lady."
She took off a glove and stuck one of her bony fingers in the air.
"Colder, but not as drafty."

"Why don't
you just knock down the wall and throw me in the lake? Seeing as you're so
intent on freezing me to death." Mistress Greal shrugged. "You'd be
going the same way as your father, then."

"Have they
found his body"-Melli grit her teeth"m'lady?"

"After the
storm that just passed, do you really think they need to look? Your father
might have run like a coward from the battle, but the mountains would have got
him in the end. After all, he was hardly in his prime."

Melli ignored the
speculation and jibes. They hadn't found his body, so that meant there was
still a chance he was alive. "How many other men are unaccounted
for?" Mistress Greal approached the bed. "Nosy, aren't we?"

"You mean you
don't know."

"There's
nothing that goes on in Bren that I don't know about, missy. Nothing."

"Has my
brother asked to see me?" Melli knew her brother was in the city, but did
he know that she was? "The king has told him you're dead. You died of a
fever three months back. No one knows you're here, missy. And no one
cares." Mistress Greal spoke with relish. "Anyway I'd hardly set
store by that brother of yours. I heard he sent his special guard onto the
field to kill your father."

"You're
lying." Melli wanted to slap Mistress Greal's toothless face. She wanted
to tear her hair from its roots and ram her head into the chamberpot. Melli had
tried the slapping thing before, though, and it had taken Mistress Greal less
than a second to call the guards.

"Ask the king
next time he comes-see if I'm lying then." Melli rested her head against
the pillows. She couldn't bear it to be true. How must her father have felt
knowing Kedrac had sent men to murder him? The fact they fought against each
other was bad enough, but this ... The only thing Maybor had lived for was his
sons.

No. That wasn't
entirely true. Maybor loved her as well. It had just taken him many years to
show it, that was all. "Maybor was seen riding away from the battle?"
Melli had already asked this days ago, but right now she needed reassurance.

Mistress Greal
smiled. "Your father is the sort of coward who likes to hit defenseless
women. First sign of real danger, though, and he's off faster than you can call
him a drunken bastard."

Melli was out of
the bed in an instant. As always, her increased weight was a shock. She grew
heavier by the day. But no slower. Her arms were around Mistress Greal's throat
before the woman could take a breath. Mistress Greal elbowed Melli in the
chest.

"Guards!"
she screamed, aiming her other elbow for Melli's stomach. Melli grabbed her
wrist. Mistress Greal's hand slipped away and Melli was left holding her glove.

The guards came
in, spears pointing. Melli backed away, one arm up in submission, one arm
behind her back, tucking the glove into the waistband of her skirt. At least
one hand wouldn't be blue with cold tonight.

"You little
bitch!" Mistress Greal stepped forward and slapped Melli on the cheek.
"Get on the bed." And then to the guards: "No food for her
today."

"But, m'lady,
the king said the girl was to be fed proper." Mistress Greal looked at the
guard. Melli was gratified to see she had two nasty-looking red marks on either
side of her neck. "Give her your slops, if you must. But nothing
more." With that, she turned on her heels and left the room. Melli
breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," she said to the guard.

The guard nodded.
He was young, with a bad complexion and brown hair. "Was nothing,
miss." He and his companion left the room. The lock turned, the bolt was
drawn, and Melli was left alone once more.

She pulled
Mistress Greal's glove from her skirt. It was her prize. Soft brown pigskin
lined with rabbit hair, it was shaped for a large left hand. Melli put it on.
The fit didn't matter. The fact of the thing did. She was going to escape from here
somehow, and she'd need a weapon and some warm clothing when she did. Melli
held her gloved hand up to the light. It wasn't a bad start.

"So you've
finally decided to join us, then," said Tawl, hand on hips, looking like a
cross between a riled fishwife and an impatient merchant. He had a new tunic
on, and it was colored a little more brightly than the usual one he wore. But
then everything looked brighter today.

Jack was hung
over. His mouth was as dry as a bag of grain and his head felt as heavy as a
stone. "I spent the night with the captain. Had a few drinks, fell asleep
at dawn, next thing I know it's midmorning."

"You know
we're leaving Rorn today?"

Jack looked
around. Only a minute earlier he had practically walked into Tawl, Nabber, and
Megan on the steps of the Rose and Crown. "Where are the horses?"

"Nabber sold
them. We'll pick up some more in Marls."

"Marls?"

"We're
sailing there today. I'm not risking going back up the peninsula. Baralis will
be expecting us to go that way." Jack wished his head felt clearer and
that the sun wasn't shining so brightly. He couldn't think of any objection to
Tawl's plan, so he clapped Nabber on the shoulder, and said, "Marls, it
is, then."

Giving him a
strange look, Tawl said, "What happened to you last night?"

"I finally
learnt the truth."

No one spoke after
that: the words seemed to carry a charm that held the tongues of all who heard
them. Tawl nodded once, as if he had received exactly the answer he had
expected, and Nabber simply smiled, his gaze firmly on the crowd.

They made their
way down to the harbor in silence. Tawl and Megan were arm in arm, Nabber was
some distance behind them-doubtless engaged in some last-minute withdrawals-and
Jack walked a few steps ahead.

Jack was trying to
come to terms with what had happened last night. His hangover was not making it
easy. He and Quain had finished off a bottle and a half of rum. They'd told
tales, sang songs, and then fallen asleep. Or at least Jack did. He woke up the
next morning to find himself covered with warm blankets and Quain sitting in
the comer, watching. "You're so like her," he said. "Just to see
you fills my heart with joy."

Jack looked up at
the bright morning sky. Quain had obviously been in love with his mother. He
had helped her selflessly, saved her life, given her his savings, and
ultimately let her go. Thirty years had passed and he still remembered her with
all the bright intensity of youth. What had she been like then? Jack wondered.
Above all else she must have been brave. A young girl traveling the length of
the Known Lands on her own was unheard of. And she had done no half-measure,
either. She'd headed to the farthest possible point from Larn: to the Four
Kingdoms. Jack felt a cold chill chase down his spine. What fear she must have
felt to cross a continent.

She had never
shown any of it to him, though. Nine years they'd had together, and not once in
that time had he seen her cry or look afraid.

Larn was gone now,
but it would never be forgotten. It was inside him, and as he thought about it
now, he realized that it might have always been there. Jack recalled the moment
when he had first touched the rock in the cavern; he remembered the smell, the
sight, and the feel of it. It was just like coming home. His mother's home, the
place that made her who she was.