Master and Fool (57 page)

"No,"
said the stranger. "You are too young to be drinking. Go home and learn
your prayers."

"Aah, well,
I'd be there now, sir, if it wasn't for the fact that my mother's taken my
prayer book with her to the Seaman's Fancy."

"The only
women in the Seaman's Fancy are prostitutes."

"All the more
reason for me to pray for her, then." The man tugged on the earflaps of
his hat. He was beaten--and he knew it. "Straight down this road. Turn
left at Pickling Street, left again at Salting Street, right on Preserve. You
can't miss it."

"Thank you
for your kindness, sir," said Nabber, bowing and walking away. "I'll
be sure to mention you in my prayers."

Nabber followed
the man's directions. He still didn't like Marls, but its people were
definitely a challenge to his wits.

The journey
here,
however, had been a challenge to his guts. Never sailed in his life before.
Never wanted to. First couple of days were murder. He tried everything from
sitting blindfolded in the crow's nest to crouching barefoot in the hold.
Nothing worked on his seasickness until Captain Fermcatch--a man who was as
good as he was hairy--suggested that Nabber take the wheel. Well, after that it
was plain sailing all the way. Being in charge made all the difference. Took to
it like a fish to water. Might even be a sailor himself one day. A pirate!
That's what he'd be. A pocketer of the high seas.

Yes, there was a
lot to be said for sailing. For one thing, it was most definitely better than
riding. Tawl had said that they would only spend one night in Marls and ride
north first thing tomorrow. Nabber wasn't looking forward to that at all.
Riding meant horses, and horses meant grief. In fact, that was where Jack was
now-out finding two nags worthy of purchase. They were all supposed to meet up
later by the quay, buy the nags in question, exchange any information they'd
managed to glean about the war, and then find a place to stay.

"'Scuse me,
madam," said Nabber, stopping yet another person. No pocketing this
time-the woman only looked good for
a
few coppers. "Is this
Preserve Street?" Nabber couldn't read, so he was forced to rely on the
kindness of strangers.

"This is
indeed Preserve," said the woman, "but a boy as young as you should
be home learning his prayers." Nabber bowed and walked on. Very strange
place Marls. The Seaman's Fancy was not as much a building as it was a door.
Nabber would have walked right past it if it hadn't been for the smell of ale
and sailors wafting from around the frame. The building the door was located in
was derelict; the shutters had been torn from the windows, the paint long
peeled, the top floor was open to the skies, and the lower masonry looked fit
to crumble. The only part of the building that was in any state of repair was
the door. blue for the sea, bloodstained from squabbling sailors, and
emblazoned with a crude likeness of a naked woman to attract the fancy of
passersby.

Knocking didn't
seem in order, so Nabber walked right in. He found himself on a badly lit
staircase leading down. Fatty, acrid tallow smoke wafted from below. Nabber
descended with caution.

He emerged in the
corner of a low-ceilinged cellar. The place was sparsely furnished with a
handful of upturned beer barrels and three-legged stools. The cobblestone floor
was damp and the wood-braced walls were sprouting. The few customers there were
looked dangerous. Nabber spotted Tawl straightaway. He was talking to a large,
dark-haired man. Neither man seemed especially agitated, so Nabber took a seat
near the bar and prepared to bide his time.

"Yes,"
Gravia said, his voice low and harsh. "There was a battalion of knights on
the field. Tyren accompanied Kedrac to Bren."

Tawl's lips felt
dry. He licked them. "Did they take part in the slaughter?"

Gravia's
expression didn't falter. "Why do you think I'm here today?"

So
they
had.
Tawl leant back against the wall and regarded his old friend Gravia. He hardly
looked a day older than when Tawl had seen him last; the dark hair was as
glossy as ever, the handsome, angular face still smooth.

Nearly seven years
ago they'd parted. Valdis had enjoyed a warm spring that year. The world was
full of hope and he and Gravia were full of dreams. They had plans to meet up
in summer and travel together to the Far South in search of holy relics or a
burning cause. They never made it. The trip home changed everything. One sight
of the burnt cottage and all promises were sundered.

Now this man, this
knight whom Tawl respected as a peer and loved as a friend, sat across the
table and told him he was leaving the order.

Tawl had spent
three years at Gravia's side. He knew him well. Of all the knights that gained
the second circle that fateful spring, no one was more dedicated than him. To
find him here, in this seedy tavern, arranging swift passage to Leiss, was a
profound shock to Tawl. It made his heart ache.

Tawl glanced at
Gravia's right arm. His circles were well covered, just like his own.
"Will you ever come back?" he asked.

A bitter smile
flashed across Gravia's face. "No. As long as Tyren is head of the order,
I will not count myself a knight. I was there in Halcus when Kylock ordered the
slaughter of innocent women and children--Tyren didn't raise a finger to stop
him."

Tawl looked into
Gravia's dark brown eyes. "I can't believe that of Tyren."

"You've spent
the last six years with your head in the sand. You don't know what he's capable
of."

Hearing Gravia's
words brought back an echo of another similar conversation, many weeks old.
"Tyren's
a bad man, Tawl, "
Nabber had said the night an expertly aimed arrow
sent them traveling through the night. Tawl swallowed hard. It wasn't true. It
couldn't be. Angry at himself for doubting Tyren for even an instant, he cried,
"Tyren was always a friend to me."

Gravia made a hard
little sound in his throat.
"Friend.
He was never your friend,
Tawl."

"He brought
me to Valdis, gave me free training. He saved my life."

"After all
these years you still don't know?" Gravia shook his head. The edge in his
voice changed the nature of the air between them. It became clear, taut,
charged like before a storm. "No one ever told you?"

Tawl brought his
whole body forward. "Told me what?"

"Told you
that Tyren sold your services to the man with the most gold." Gravia,
seeming to regret his harsh words, put a hand on Tawl's arm.

Tawl shook it off.
"What do you mean?"

"I mean the
only reason why Tyren sent you to Bevlin was because he was paid handsomely to
do so. Bevlin tried for months to get Tyren to send him a knight. Tyren refused
until Bevlin offered him gold." Gravia sighed. All the force in his large
and well-toned body ebbed away, leaving a tired and disillusioned man in its
wake. "Tyren never believed in the wiseman's cause. He never believed in
you. Gold wasand is-his only motive."

"You're
lying."

"No, Tawl.
What do you think I did that spring we parted? Tyren sent me to Bevlin to pick
up the payment. Five hundred pieces of gold I carried home."

Tawl closed his
eyes. Gravia's words were blades in his heart. Everything he held dear was a
sham. Seven years he had lived with the pain of losing his family, and during
that time his one, his only, comfort was knowing that Tyren had believed in
him. Only now there was no belief just a dirty little transaction where his
services were bought and sold.

Slowly he began to
shake his head. "No. Not this." The pressure in his chest was
unbearable. He dug his fingertips into the wood of the table. "Dear God,
not this." A lump formed in his throat, cutting down his words to a rasped
whisper. Everything was tainted now. Every action he had taken since his
sisters' deaths had been paid for with gold. He felt dirty, violated. Dropping
his head to the table, Tawl tried hard to stop his shoulders from shaking.

"Get away
from him, you!" shrieked a familiar voice. "You leave him alone. Go
tell your lies to someone else." Tawl looked up to see Nabber pulling at
Gravia's arm. "Stop it, Nabber," he said.

Gravia stood up.
"I'm sorry, Tawl. As Borc is my witness, I never meant to hurt you."

Tawl swallowed
hard. "Gravia, I think Nabber's right. You'd better go."

"But--"

"You knew.
You knew and you never told me. We were like brothers-you and I." As soon
as the words were out, Tawl regretted them. The pain on Gravia's face was
unmistakable. The deed of seven years back was like a dying man's curse: it
corrupted beyond the grave. Gravia was young, they both were, and together they
had looked up to Tyren as if he were a god.

"Gravia,
I'm-"The words died on Tawl's lips. Gravia was already on the other side
of the room, climbing the stairs.

Tawl watched him
go.

Old pain merged
with new pain and settled close against his heart. He would never see his
friend again. Tawl sighed. He felt very tired. He had made a bad thing worse.

He'd not only lost
Tyren today, but he'd lost Gravia as well. There was no end to what a man could
bear.

After a moment, he
stood up. "Come on, Nabber. Let's go." There was only one thing left
to him now: traveling to Bren to rescue Melli.

Tavalisk had just
come from supervising the packing of his stash. It was all due to be removed
tomorrow: half was going to a little town just south of Rorn, and half was
going to a house on Kirtish Street. The archbishop's mind, while not totally at
ease, was now in midrepose. No one would get their greasy little hands on his
treasures after tomorrow. No one.

Browsing through
room after room of gems, holy icons, and gold had calmed Tavalisk considerably.
If things did come to the worst--and the way things looked in the north at the
moment they certainly might-he at least could be assured of a comfortable
retirement. Kylock and Baralis were dangerous men individually, but together
they were proving unstoppable. At the moment their empire was restricted to the
north, but who could tell what would happen after spring. Once they took Ness
it would be so easy for them to turn their sights south to Camlee.

Oh, the south
would arm Camlee--eventually--but cities like Marls, Toolay, and Falport simply
didn't realize just how great a threat Kylock's armies could be. The south had
spent centuries scorning the north. It was considered backward, its people
barbarians, its cities primitive citadels, and its policies no concern of the
south. Tavalisk rubbed his chubby chin. Such thinking could well seal their
fate.

A dozen roasted
sheeps' hearts were slowly congealing on a platter. Tavalisk pushed them aside.
He didn't have the stomach for them.

The archbishop
crossed over to the windows and made sure there was no light peeping through.
Next, he walked to the door and turned the key. He had brought back only one
box from his hideaway, and he opened it now in
the
safety of a locked
and shuttered room. He couldn't risk anyone else moving it. Its contents were
more precious and damning than gold.

Off came the lid.
Books, scrolls, and manuscripts gleamed dully like old skin. The smell
fluttered, as if on moth's wings, straight up to the archbishop's nose.

Memories scurried
across his consciousness the moment the scent was named. Rapascus. These papers
were his lifework. The lifework of the greatest religious scholar of the last
five hundred years.

All miscredited to
a young, aspiring clergyman known as Father Tavalisk.

Tavalisk
remembered the journey across the Northern Ranges. It was early spring. Cold
winds blew from the west and the snow was wet underfoot. The caravan he
traveled with was poorly equipped and they had to stop every few minutes to
clear paths. Altogether the crossing took them a month. In summer it would have
taken a week. Tavalisk, who had paid the minstrels well for the privilege of
joining their wagon train, spent most of his time in the back of his covered
cart, reading all the papers he had stolen.

By the time they
made it to Lairston, he knew Rapascus' lifework as well as if it were his own.
The great wiseman was dead, his house had been burnt to the ground, there was
nothing left of him but his books. And once the word got out, everyone would
assume those books had perished with him. Indeed, Tavalisk intended to be the
first to spread the word. He'd already practiced his lie: "Such a tragedy.
Rapascus spent the last twenty years in mystical research, and it was all
consumed by the flames. Nothing was saved."

Then, if the
question happened to arise as to what business
he
had with the great
man, he would shrug humbly and say, "Oh nothing. I am engaged in a little
religious work, and I sought Rapascus' opinion."

Three nights
Tavalisk spent in Lairston preparing his tale. On the third night he met
Baralis.

Lairston nestled
at the foot of the Northern Ranges. It was a small mining town, boasting a
handful of inns and a blacksmith. Situated directly below one of the few passes
to the north, it did a fair business in travel. Tavalisk was eating alone in
the dining hall of the Last Refuge when in walked a man from the cold. The wind
swept ahead of him and the snow flurried behind. Tall and striking, dressed in
black, he waited less than a minute to be served. The tavern-maid, a silly girl
with a conspicuous bosom and eyes inclined to wink, showed the stranger to a
seat next to the fire. Tavalisk was sitting on the other side of the great
hearth and listened as the man requested dinner and a room.

"Have you
come to take the pass, sir?" asked the tavernmaid.

The man nodded.

The girl waved an
arm Tavalisk's way. "This gentleman has just come down from the mountain.
He says conditions in the pass are bad." With that, she left them, bobbing
a crude curtsey and promising to be back.