Master and Fool (65 page)

"First spoils
in Highwall would be quite a prize, Your Eminence. Tyren is more a knight than
a pawn."

"Knights!
Pawns! Spare me the chess metaphors, Gamil. You're a servant, not a wandering
minstrel." Tavalisk drummed on the desk. He was beginning to feel a little
hysterical. "I need facts.
Facts.
Have any of our supplies reached
Camlee yet? How are the city's armaments? How long could they hold out
for?"

"Some of our
supplies have reached the city, Your Eminence: food, armaments and the like. No
manpower has been sent, though. No one thought the attack would come quite so
soon." Gamil fingered the fastenings on his tunic. "As for the city
itself, it will be caught almost entirely off guard. They've had no time to
prepare, their battlements are run-down, and their army consists mainly of
conscripts. I would say they can hold out a month at the most."

Tavalisk slumped
back in his chair. Kylock was going to get away with it. He was going to steal
Camlee from under their very noses. There was literally no way to stop him. The
south would send mercenaries and supplies, but they wouldn't risk sending their
armies. The southern cities were notoriously self-serving, and they'd rather
hold out and save their own necks than band together and save everyone else's.
Besides,

Camlee was in a
peculiar position: southerners regarded it as the north, and northerners swore
it was in the south.

Kylock had chosen
both time and destination well. Tavalisk had hoped that a show of southern
solidarity might have put him off, but now he realized the new king would have
seen it for what it was: a show. Solidarity was one thing. Force was quite
another.

From his own point
of view his hands were tied. The good people of Rorn loved him-today-but if he
as much as hinted that he wanted to embroil the city in a disabling foreign
war, he'd be kicked out of office before he could say the words: We
might-
be next.
The other southern leaders would be in the exact same predicament.

Gamil mustered a
polite cough. "What instructions does Your Eminence have?"

Instructions?
Tavalisk felt an unfamiliar vacuum in his thoughts. He
had
no instructions.
For seventeen years he had been archbishop of Rorn, and not once in all that
time had ideas failed him. He schemed as naturally as others breathed. There
was always a plot, a maneuver, a tricky little bluff. But now there was
nothing. He couldn't come up with any way to prevent Kylock from getting his
claws into Camlee.

He,
the
chosen one, had no strategies left.

The sun
disappeared behind a cloud and a gray shadow passed over the room. Tavalisk
shuddered. Was this the beginning of the end?

Something sharp
jabbed against his throat. "Get UP. "

Another jab,
followed by a kick, then something warm landed on his cheek. Tawl opened his
eyes in time to see Skaythe wiping the spittle from his lips.

"Get up, you
bastard."

Memories and
senses worked quickly to shape Tawl's world. He was lying on a grassy bank,
cold, wet, shivering. Lake Ormon lapped against his ankles, and a bloodied
knife was pointed at his throat. He must have passed out after dragging himself
from the water. But for how long? He glanced around. The sky was a fly's wing
darker than when he'd seen it last. Ten, perhaps twenty minutes, then. So that
meant Jack and the knights would be about halfway down the path.

A subtle flexing
of his muscles revealed that stalling was in order- it was going to take him
some time to regain his strength and increase his body temperature. Weak and
disorientated, Tawl fell back on his knighthood training, recalling techniques,
both physical and mental, to ready his body for action. Rhythmically tensing the
muscles in his lower body to encourage the blood flow, Tawl concentrated hard
on his heart, overriding its natural pacing, forcing it to pump harder. All the
while he took quick, deep breaths, filling his lungs with air. Tilting his hip
a fraction, he felt for the weight of his knife.

"Come on.
Draw it." Skaythe aimed a kick at Tawl's knife belt. "Get up and draw
your blade."

Tawl was instantly
on guard. Skaythe was quick.

"I figure
we'll be evenly matched," said Skaythe, backing away a fraction. "Me
with my bad leg and shoulder and you"-he shrugged- "with your little
chill."

While he was
speaking, Tawl was working to pump blood into his blue-tinged limbs. His heart
rate had increased, but he still felt physically drained-he needed more time.

Rising to a sitting
position, he said, "I'm sorry about what happened to Blayze. I should have
stopped at victory."

"Yes, you
should have." Skaythe moved close and slapped him across his face.
"Now, get up!"

Tawl had said the
apology merely as a stall, but as he spoke the words he realized that he meant
it. He had done some terrible things in his life and had many burdens to bear.
Sometimes he made bad choices, sometimes he was given no choice at all. But
today, in the green depths of Lake Ormon, he had finally made the
right
choice.
He chose redemption. His path was clear now; his fate cut two ways. On one side
was Melli and his oath to protect her, and on the other side was Valdis and his
obligation to his brethren.

Saving Melli was
for himself.

Saving the
knighthood was for his family.

Nine years ago he
had walked out on his sisters, abandoning them for all the glory that lay
beyond Valdis' gates. Only there was no glory, and its absence made his
sisters' deaths meaningless.
He had deserted his family for a sham
that was
his demon, it was what he had seen in the icy water. It was the monster with
teeth that bit beyond the grave.

And the only way
to stop them biting was to make the knighthood glorious once more. For Anna,
for Sara, for the baby. Tawl stood up. He had not chosen redemption to be
waylaid so early in the game. His time was far from up, and he couldn't allow
one man's vengeance to get in the way of his fate. He drew his knife. His legs
were weak, his muscles aching, his sense of balance slightly off kilter. Even
as Tawl made a mental inventory of his physical state, his body took a
fighter's stance: legs apart, knees slightly bent, knife hand close to the
waist, blade facing up.

"Skaythe,"
he said, gently settling himself on the balls of his feet, "I would prefer
not to kill a man this day. I offer you a choice: put down your weapon, accept
my shame as an apology, and walk away from this fight. Or die here, by my hand,
and I'll send your soul straight to hell and your blood dripping into the
lake."

Skaythe brought
his blade up. "How can I accept a choice from a man who failed to offer my
brother one?" He lunged forward, slashing diagonally with his knife.

Tawl was forced to
jump back. The impact of landing nearly buckled his legs. He scored a wide
half-circle with his knife, forcing Skaythe to stay put for a critical second
while he righted himself. An instant later, Skaythe was upon him, edging him
back toward the lake. Tawl felt water creeping around his ankles. Cursing his
aching muscles, he tried to dodge Skaythe's blade. The man was tenacious,
though, and matched him feint for feint.

Noticing that he
favored his left leg, Tawl sprang to Skaythe's right, trying to throw him off
balance. Skaythe was obviously used to compensating for his lameness, for he
immediately shifted side-on, bringing his left foot behind him to support his
weight. Tawl stepped farther back into the water. In his current condition
there was no way he could beat Skaythe fair and square. The man was faster,
stronger, and more alert. Alternative tactics were called for.

The water was his
only advantage. Lake Ormon favored its own, and after what had happened
earlier, Tawl knew he was counted amongst them. He had been down to its
slow-pumping heart, had seen its secret green caverns. It was his territory now
Tawl made Skaythe come in after him. Every step sideways was also a step back.
Knee-deep now, Skaythe was forced to pay more attention to his footing; one
slip of his right foot and the lake would have him. Tawl edged out into the
water, sweeping his knife in defense while feeling for the lakebed with his
toes.

The shelf was
starting to slope sharply. Tawl sent out his foot, but could find no hardness
to rest upon. He was standing a foot-length away from the point where the shelf
became a drop. He moved to his right. Skaythe moved forward. Tawl deliberately
let down his guard, leaving his torso open to an attack. Skaythe seized the
opportunity, lunging at the unguarded flesh. Tawl felt a slicing sting in his
chest
-he
ignored it. Again he moved to his right, forcing Skaythe to
turn his back on the ledge. Their positions were reversed now.

Tawl gritted his
teeth and sprang out of the water straight toward Skaythe. He hit him full in
the chest. Skaythe's knife was up, but Tawl's momentum forced him to step back.

Trying to steady
himself with his strong left foot, he sent out his right behind him. The minute
difference in length between his legs meant Skaythe was accustomed to judging
distances with his left. His right leg was used to feeling no ground beneath it
because it was the shorter of the two.

He stepped back,
assuming the lakebed was just a fraction below his foot. The lake sucked him
under. Tawl saw Skaythe trying to pivot his weight forward, but he had moved
too quickly and tried to compensate too late.

Tawl took a step
back toward the bank. Bringing his knife forward, he watched as Skaythe
struggled to find a foothold on the shelf. He was panicking, gulping in water,
flaying his arms around wildly. When he finally managed to balance himself,
Tawl would slip in with his knife.

The lake would
take a life today after all.

Tawl closed his
eyes for a moment. He felt very weak. He wanted to sleep in soft blankets by a
blazing fire and dream about his sisters till dawn. Despite his threat to Skaythe,
he didn't want to kill him: not here, not now, not like this. He had been given
a gift today, and it was only fitting he gave one back.

Tawl dropped his
knife. It splashed against the surface, flashed once in the dimming light, and
was lost to the water's keeping. Turning, Tawl began wading his way back to the
bank. Skaythe could live to fight another day.

Just as he drew
near the water's edge, Tawl heard splashing behind him. He spun around. Skaythe
was running forward, knife in hand, lips moving in silent fury.

Tawl had a
fraction of a second to register disappointment, and then Skaythe stopped in
his tracks. He staggered backward and plunged into the water, an arrow
quivering in his heart.

The pain in Tawl's
chest suddenly reasserted itself. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. He needed to
get to the shore. Forcing himself to keep wading, Tawl started to blank out:
the world grew dark around the edges and the lake rose up to meet his face. And
then Jack was there, pulling him out of the water, carrying him to the shore.
The knights were waiting on the bank. Nabber came dashing forward; Borlin was
putting away his bow. Everyone gathered around, touching, smiling, caring. Tawl
wanted to say something, to explain what had happened, to tell them he was all
right, but his heart was too heavy with love and pain to do anything more than
give thanks.

Tyren leant
forward. His leathers were so well beaten they didn't make a noise. "I can
help you take Camlee within a month."

Baralis waited for
the man to explain himself, but Tyren's lips were pressed into a tantalizing
line. The leader of the knighthood stroked his sleek beard, his eyes never
leaving Baralis for an instant. Tyren was one of the few men Baralis had ever
met who was not afraid of silences. He was willing to let them linger-no matter
how strained or awkward-in order to compel his opponent into speaking.

Baralis took a
thin breath. "How can you help us take Camlee?"

Tyren smiled. He
moved his hand from his beard to his temple and smoothed back a lock of
gleaming hair. "Let's first talk about why rather than how."

So the negotiation
had started. Tyren had certainly taken his time. He had been in the city for
weeks now, and had even gone so far as to set up camp outside the gates, but up
until today there had been no whiff of deals. He had been playing a waiting
game, and now Baralis realized what he was waiting for. Word had come today
that the empire's forces had finally reached Camlee.

Baralis crossed
over to his desk and poured two cups of wine. They were sitting in a silk
merchant's house in the south side of the city. The good merchant himself was
out probably off spending the fifty golds that had bought the use of his home
and his silence. Even though there was less need for secrecy now than when he
and Tyren had first met, Baralis preferred to be discreet all the same. There
was no need to involve Kylock in this particular negotiation.

Sitting back in
his chair, Baralis said, "What exactly do you want, Tyren?"

Tyren slid his
hand along his thigh. Finely manicured fingers rested upon a block of solid
muscle. "I want first spoils in Highwall."

Baralis had
expected no less. "And?"

"Free rein in
Camlee when it's taken." Tyren's tone was carefully modulated. He always
worked hard on his voice. "After a slow start, the conversions in Helch
are going well. I want to move forward quickly while Valdis' successes are
still fresh. Of course, I'll require the same latitude in Camlee that you so
kindly allowed me in Helch."

He meant he wanted
to be free to persecute the people of Camlee without fear of repercussions from
Kylock. Baralis brought his goblet up to his lips to hide a smile.