Master and Fool (56 page)

Jack stopped in
his tracks. The old woman who had sat and rocked and shown them the way was his
grandmother Stillfox had said the girl from Lam's mother was deformed, unable
to use her right arm or the muscles on the right side of her face. It was her.
Jack recalled her right hand, curled up like the skeleton of a dead bird.
Somehow she had known he was coming and helped him.

The seers had
helped him, too. That last day, they must have known he was on the island, yet
they held their tongues. Wishing for death.

"Are you all
right, Jack?" It was Tawl. "I'm fine, really. Just tired."

"You look
pale. The ship's at the end of the quay. Once we've boarded, you should get
some rest."

"What
ship?" Jack hadn't been paying much attention to where they were walking.
But now, looking around, he saw they were in a different section of the harbor
from where
The Fishy Few
docked.

"Shrimp
Scourer. Over there." Tawl pointed to a small, single-masted caravel.
"Quain recommended it to me. They should be expecting us."

Jack nodded and
walked on. The sea was gray and calm, the wind fair, and the sky clear except
for a band of streaky clouds to the east. It was a fine day. In the kingdoms at
this time of year it would be cold, dark, and frosty Jack wondered if his
mother had ever gotten used to the difference in climate. She had never liked
the cold; her winters were spent inside by the fire, sitting so close she'd
scorch her cheeks. Her self-imposed exile must have been hard for her to bear.

Reaching the boat,
Jack waited for Tawl to say goodbye to Megan. Nabber had appeared out of
nowhere, and by the looks of things, he and Tawl were arguing over the contents
of his sack.

"All of
it?" squawked Nabber.

"Yes,"
said Tawl. "We can pick up some more cash in Marls."

"You mean I
can pick up-"

"Stop,"
said Megan. "I don't want your money, Nabber. You've already bought me
these lovely clothes. I wouldn't ask you for anything more."

Nabber hung his
head low. "I could give you half." Tawl gave himself away by
laughing. "Make it three quarters."

"two
thirds."

"Done. Now
hand it over."

While Nabber
counted out the money, Tawl took Megan's hand in his. Jack, wanting to give
them privacy, stepped onto the Shrimp Scourer's gangplank.

A small, swarthy
man cut across the deck. "Friends of Captain Quain?" he asked.

Jack nodded.

The sailor waved
him aboard. He was dressed in a brightly embroidered waistcoat and bloodred
britches. "Perfect day for setting sail," he said, holding out his
hand to be clasped. "I'm Balvay of Marls, first mate, ship's outfitter,
and son of Nollisk." Jack took his hand. "I'm Jack of the Four
Kingdoms." He hesitated for a moment and then added: "And Larn. My
mother's family hails from Larn."

The words were
strange upon his tongue, but they rang with the clear note of truth. At last he
had found half of himself. He had origins and history and family still alive.
"Yes, my mother came from Larn," he repeated, just for the sake of
it.

Baralis stood on
Bren's battlements and looked out upon a field of frozen corpses. Snow had
drifted against the dead, forming a landscape of white limbs and white bodies
reaching up from icy graves. Dark little figures, quick-moving like ants, could
be seen scurrying between the mounds. The storm had delayed the looting, and
only now were people venturing from the city in search of spoils.

"The bodies
need to be disposed of," Baralis said to Kylock. "Why? They won't
start to stink until spring." Kylock raised a gloved hand to his cheek.
"Besides, they serve me better here, where everyone can see them, than
smoking poorly on a pyre with little flame."

This statement
annoyed Baralis. Kylock was far too arrogant for his liking. His temper
engaged, he swiftly turned to the subject that irked him the most. "The
girl should be moved from the palace before Kedrac discovers she's here."

"I wondered
how long it would take you to get around to Melliandra, Baralis. Quicker than
normal today." Kylock leant against the wall. He gazed out at the southern
plains. "There's no need to move her. In two days time Kedrac will be
leaving the city."

"He'll head
up the force bound for Ness?"

"No. Not
Ness." Kedrac turned to look at Baralis. "Camlee

"An attack on
Camlee will be seen as an attack on the south."

"I've seen it
on a map, Baralis, and it's north enough for me." Baralis took a settling
breath. Kylock was ravenous for victory, but not for power. The two were very
different. Kylock would take Camlee because he could, because he enjoyed all
the bloodiness and passion that went with conquering, not because he wanted to
rule its people. He didn't care a jot about the cities he defeated-he agreed to
leave Helch in the hands of Tyren! No, he wanted only the thrill of the rout.
The delights of political dominance, exploitation, and control--where the real
power lay were concepts too subtle to catch the young king's eye. All that
might well change over time, but for now it meant Baralis could use the king's
ambitions to fulfill his own.

"Camlee would
be quite a prize."

"It will be
so easy to take it, Baralis. Everyone will assume we're heading for Ness. We'll
even encourage them to believe it we'll set a course due east and only turn
south at the last possible moment."

"What about
Ness?"

Kylock waved a
negligent hand. "Ness is nothing. A trumped-up sheep market. They have no
battlements to speak of, no army, no decent leadership. Their only defense is
the hillsides that surround them. We can leave them until after Camlee has
fallen."

Kylock was right,
but not for the reasons he thought. Given a chance the south would rally around
Camlee-it was one of their own, a close relative, and they would defend it if
they had to. Ness, however, was a distant cousin. The south would care little
for its fate. By choosing to attack Camlee first, Kylock would take the south by
surprise, thereby robbing them of the chance to arm in secret.

"The south
won't do anything if Camlee is taken quickly," said Kylock. "Valdis
will be to the south, Bren to the north, and by the time I've finished, Ness
will be to the east. Camlee will be surrounded by cities loyal to me."

"The weather
in Camlee will be more favorable at this time of year," murmured Baralis.
He found himself liking Kylock's plan more by the minute.

"Yes, I've
considered that; it will be a lot warmer than in Ness. Supplies will be easy to
come by, too. We'll raid villages along the way for anything we need. I'll give
Kedrac free reign to do whatever he pleases."

"What forces
will he take with him?"

"All the
kingdoms' forces-hardly any of them were wounded in last week's battle--all the
blackhelms fit to fight and a dozen mounted cohorts of knights. That should be
almost nine thousand men in total--more than enough. Camlee is an old city, it
lives off old victories and defends itself with old battlements. The empire's
forces will prove more than enough for them."

The empire.
It
was the first time Baralis had heard Kylock speak its name. It was a real
living thing now. The kingdoms,

Bren, Halcus, and
soon there would be Camlee and Ness. After winter they would claim Highwall,
and Annis would surely follow. The northern empire was coming to pass.

Baralis brought
himself down. He didn't like to spend too much time in self-congratulation.
Details were everything. "And what of Bren's defenses? There is always a
chance the passes might clear, enabling Annis to send a force over the
Divide."

Kylock was already
ahead of him. "The wounded blackhelms number approximately two
thousand-half of them can be expected to recover to fighting fitness. Those who
cannot fight will train. I want every man in the city-free lances, mercenaries,
barrow-boys, and farmers to be fully equipped and ready to fight within a
month. I've already given orders to every blacksmith in the city to prepare the
necessary armor and weapons."

"Tell them to
make the blackened helmets first." Baralis moved closer to Kylock.
"Men in the north have come to fear the blackhelms. The sight of, say,
five thousand men wearing the telltale blackened helmets might seriously
discourage an invading force."

Kylock smiled.
"Baralis, as always you can refine even the best of plans."

"It shouldn't
be too hard to hold off a siege for a month or so. Bren's defenses are second
to none," Baralis said. "Yes. We have the old duke to thank for
that." Kylock began to walk toward the gatehouse door. "Oh, by the
way, we shouldn't have to worry about Maybor. I sent out a force to patrol the
base of the southern mountains. If he's alive and he's got men, he won't be
coming down."

The cold was a
disease. It blighted thought, movement, speech, and even sanity. It blighted a
man's soul. The air was still at last, but the stillness came with a price. The
temperature had dropped sharply overnight, and daylight had done little to
raise it. The snow was beginning to freeze over; it had lost its graininess and
was becoming like a solid wall around them. Yesterday water had trickled down
from the rocks; today, in its place were spikes of glistening ice.

Maybor didn't want
to breathe. He could feel the freezing air stealing its way into his lungs.
Slowly, it was killing him. Already he had lost all sensation in three fingers
on his left hand, two on his right. He could still grip a sword, but never
again would he wield one. At the moment, his main priority was keeping his
remaining fingers sound. Both hands were inside his tunic, against a layer of
scarlet silk. Two hundred men pressed against the hard spine of a mountain in
full winter. Many of the horses were dead. One was being cooked now. The men
had long given up caring about the dangers of smoke.

Four days ago they
had located a large but shallow depression in the rock face. Not deep enough to
be named a cavern, they had taken it nonetheless. Snow had gathered and
drifted, and the men who could worked to keep it building at the mouth of the
recess. The snow wall had reached its limit. It now spanned perhaps a quarter
of the opening, and that was as high as it would go without collapsing.
Currently a group of men were in the back of the depression, seeing if they
could loosen any rocks and roll them over to support the wall. Maybor had seen
the size of those rocks. They wouldn't get anywhere with them. The freezing
wind would have to be endured.

Or would it?
Maybor made a mental note to ask Grift to pull together all the extra
breastplates and shields-they could be used to add strength to the wall.

"Five more
men have died since noon, m'lord," said a young man coming to crouch
beside Maybor.

"Strip them
before their clothing freezes to their bodies."

"But,
m'lord,-the men-"

"Do it!"
hissed Maybor. "Would you have us all freeze out of respect for the
dead?"

The man walked
away, head down.

Maybor knew what
all the men were thinking: better to have died on the field than on a frozen
mountainside. No one had dared say it, but he could see it in their eyes. They
wished they had never withdrawn. Maybor's damaged right hand curled into a fair
likeness of a fist. Well, damn them all! He'd make sure they survived now just
to spite them.

All things
considered, Marls was a very strange place. It shouldn't have been-after all it
was only seven days sail from Rom--but it was nevertheless.

The buildings had
more curves than angles, but the streets were as straight as reeds. The sun
wasn't shining, but it was warm, and it wasn't raining, but it was wet. The
women wore bulky, shapeless dresses that were slit up the sides to their
thighs. The men wore hats, which they constantly pulled down over their ears,
whilst smiling all the while revealing stupendously bad teeth. There were no
children to speak of. Probably kept them in the dungeons till they were old
enough to earn a living, thought Nabber spitefully.

Nabber was, he
admitted to himself, disinclined to like Marls--it being Rom's greatest trading
rival and so on-but even he had to admit that it was interesting. And not just
in your common-all-garden interesting buildings and people way. No. Marls was
interesting in a fiscal way. Very interesting indeed.

They'd just gotten
into the harbor this morning, and already Nabber had quite a stash going-a good
one, too. A little heavy on the silver, perhaps, but with a fair amount of
precious stones to make up for the lack of gold.

Tawl had gone
looking for errant knights. The captain of the Shrimp
Scourer--a
wide
man name o' Fermcatchhad said that Marls had recently been inundated with
knights looking to gain passage to the Far South. Apparently they'd been
leaving the knighthood in droves since old Tyren had got them fighting Kylock's
battles in the north. Anyway, the moment the ship docked, Tawl had gone in
search of a certain establishment where it was rumored that knights could be
found. Nabber had the distinct feeling that if Tawl did find any knights, he'd
find trouble as well.

Which was why he
was currently on the way to the Seaman's Fancy himself. Tawl might be brave and
lethal with a sword, but he lost all his good sense when the name Tyren was
mentioned. He had a soft spot as big as a turnip patch for the leader of the
knights. Wouldn't hear a word against him, and Nabber knew more than anyone
that the man was as good as a rogue.

"' Scuse me,
sir," said Nabber, tapping a passerby on the shoulder and casually
pocketing him while he did so. "Could you tell me the quickest way to the
Seaman's Fancy?"