Master and Fool (7 page)

There were two
problems with leaving the city. First, every gate, every road, every dip in the
wall was being watched by enough guards to take a fort. Baralis knew they would
try to leave at some point, and he was taking no chances. The passes were being
monitored, the walls were patrolled by archers, even the lake boasted a ring of
troops around its shore. There was going to be no easy way out. Secondly, even
if there were an easy way out, Melli might be too sick to take it.

The pregnancy was
not going well. Melli was losing weight. She was now so thin that it tore at
Tawl's heart to look at her. For two weeks after the duke's death, she had
simply refused to eat. She was in shock, unable to eat, talk, or even cry. Then
slowly she began to come round, taking bread with her milk, washing her face
and hair, and even smiling at Nabber's antics. Thinking back on it now, Tawl
guessed that Melli began to look after herself about the same time she began to
suspect she was pregnant. Still, even now, when her appetite had all but
returned, she could barely keep her food down. No sooner had she eaten
something then it could be seen, as Nabber put it, "returning like an ugly
sister."

Everyone spoiled
her. Nothing was too good, or too much trouble. Pies were baked fresh each day,
Maybor had purchased a hen so she would have newly laid eggs, and Nabber
brought her flowers and fruit. Despite all this attention, however, Melli's
health was not improving.

Tawl had lost
loved ones. He knew what it was to grieve. Daily he wrestled with the
soul-destroying what ifs. Melli had watched an assassin cut her husband's
throat, and she would have to deal with her own set of regrets. What if she had
entered the bedchamber first? What if she had only screamed louder? What if she
had never married the duke at all?

No, Tawl shook his
head softly, it was hardly strange that Melli was not well. That she got
through each day was miracle enough.

Tawl checked the
street as a matter of course. No Nabber, no strangers, no guards.

What was he going
to do about Melli? Should he place her unborn child at risk by taking her from
the city? Or should he place the child's health first and stay put? If they
left the city, there would be many days of hard traveling, mountains to cross, soldiers
to evade; they would have to live rough and be light on their feet in case they
were chased. If they stayed in Bren they risked capture, but at least Melli's
pregnancy would run smoothly.

Tawl looked down
at his hands, and saw for the first time what he was sculpting: it was a
child's doll.

Was his first
loyalty to Melli or the baby?

Jack's feet felt
as if they had been run over by a loaded cart. The rest of his body wasn't
doing too well, either-particularly the glass burns. Stillfox certainly knew
how to turn an ointment into a weapon. For two days now his arms and chest had
been throbbing, but over the past four hours his feet had stolen the show.

He had finally
made it to Annis. The city lay ahead of him, its gray walls gleaming in the
moonlight. The road to either side was lined with houses and taverns, their
shutters and lintels painted many shades of blue. People were everywhere,
driving cattle home from pasture, bringing unsold goods from market, walking
slowly to evening mass, or briskly to well-lit taverns. The wind was cool and
smelled of wood smoke. Stars glinted high above the mountains, and somewhere
water skipped noisily over a quarry's worth of rocks.

The road consisted
of crushed stones that crunched with every step. Jack could feel their sharp
edges cutting through his shoes. He was nervous. Surely people were staring at
him. Yet he looked no different from anyone else. His clothes, which had been
provided by Stillfox, were much the same as any man's. True, his hair was long,
but it was tied at the back of his neck with a length of Wadwell rope. Jack's
hand stole up to check it-a gesture he caught himself doing more and more these
days-and he found the rope was still in place. Nothing made by the Wadwells was
likely to wear out, drop off, or break. In fact, Jack was pretty certain that
the rope would have to be buried with him.

Smiling, Jack
looked up. A young girl was staring straight at him. As soon as their glances
met she looked away. Jack moved on. He made a point of walking where the light
from the houses couldn't catch him.

It had been ten
weeks since he first met Stillfox and over three months since the garrison
burned. Could the Halcus still be looking for him? With the war all but lost
and an invasion of Bren planned, did they really have time or resources to
search out one man?

All thoughts
vanished from Jack's head as he reached the outer wall of Annis. The gate was
being drawn closed for the night. The portcullis was being lowered, the
overhead timbers creaking with the strain. Jack ran toward it.

"Watch out,
boy!" came a gruff warning. "Or the spikes will have your shoulders
for mincemeat."

Jack took a step
back. "I must enter the city tonight." As he spoke, Jack attempted to
mimic Stillfox's way of speaking-his kingdoms accent would give him away.

A second man,
situated high atop the wall, shouted down. "Slip us a few golds and I'll
hold the gate while you pass."

"I don't have
any gold."

"Then I don't
have the strength to hold the gate." The portcullis plunged toward the
ground. Jack contemplated making a run for it, decided it wasn't a good idea,
so hissed a few choice curses instead. The spikes fell straight into the
waiting pits and the city was closed off for the night.

"Try us in
the morning, boy," said the gatekeeper pleasantly. "My strength might
have returned by then."

Jack smiled up at
the man, while calling him a smug devil under his breath. How was he going to
get into the city now?

With nothing else
to do and nowhere to go, Jack began to walk around the walls. Made of light
gray granite, they had been finely polished and then chiseled with a diamond's
edge. Demons and angels had been carved side by side, the sun shared the sky
with the stars, and Borc and the devil walked hand in hand.

"Annis is a
city of intellectuals," Grift had once said. "They're not happy
unless they're confusing, confounding, and acting as devil's advocate."
Jack remembered that Grift's first wife had come from Annis, so that probably
explained a lot.

The temperature
was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack
knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox's
cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for
the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The
herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now,
after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know
about Melli.

Yes, Jack thought,
the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn't let him. He
had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and
so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.

Annis was turning
out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so
far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the
night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and
rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully
constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as
he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of
embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.

An owl called
shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle
he'd just safely jumped. "Borc's blood, " he hissed, scraping the
soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren't supposed to live by mountains!
Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in
mid-scrape. A second whisper chased after the first: a man's voice beckoning.
Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high
bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly
to the wall. A man's head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and
another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes
sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.

Very slowly Jack
placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him
away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all
heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging
against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough
as a dog's snout.

Suddenly a hand
slapped over Jack's mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his
lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to
was massive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed
his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar:

"Miller!"

The word was a
battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the
cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker's white
came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He
raised his hands in submission.

The man on the
ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army
drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt
the return of the pudgy hand.

The white-aproned
men formed a half circle around him. "He looks like no miller I
know," said one of their number.

"Aye, Barmer,
but you know millers--sneaky through and through." This comment, made by
the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.

The pudgy-handed
one spoke up from behind. "Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him
where he stands?"

"Club
him!" cried the fattest.

"Search him
fast for gold," cried Barmer.

The hand that was
pressed against Jack's mouth smelled strongly of yeast. "Well," said
its owner, "I think we should question him anyway. Suspend his vitals over
a hot griddle and we'll soon learn what the millers are up to." The word
millers
was spoken with an enemy's contempt.

Jack was beginning
to realize what he had chanced upon. Snapping back his jaw, he jerked it
quickly forward and bit the pudgy-handed man squarely on the thumb. Free from
the man's grip for an instant, Jack cried, "I'm not a miller! I'm one of
you. I'm a baker."

It seemed a lot
darker in Bren tonight than any other night Nabber could remember. Not that he
was scared of the dark, of course. It was just a little worrying, that was all.
Swift had once said,
"Some nights just aren't right for pocketing,
"
and this was most definitely one of those.

Nabber was weaving
his way through the south side of the city, about a league east of Cravin's
townhouse. He'd been skirting around the hideout all day, hoping to muster
enough courage to face Tawl. He knew the knight would give him a lashing, the
worst kind, too-a verbal one. After all he deserved it, sending Bodger and
Grift round with the password, getting Lord Maybor nearly killed. Why, all he
needed to do to top it all off would be to bring the duke's blackhelms to the
door!

Nabber spat in
self-disgust. Swift would have revoked his pocketing privileges and cast him
out on the street for less.

Oh, he knew he had
to go back--and in fact had pocketed more than enough gold to ensure a welcome
returnbut the thought of seeing disapproval or, even worse, disappointment, on
Tawl's noble face kept his feet from making their move. He still kept an eye on
the hideout, though. Just to make sure that everyone was safe and no guards had
turned up to take Tawl and Melli away. He wouldn't be able to live with himself
if that had happened in his absence. Scratching his chin to aid reflection,
Nabber carefully considered such an occurrence. Well, he might be able to live
with himself after all-but he'd be sorely ashamed.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

For the fast time
Nabber's brain registered what his ears already knew: someone had stepped from
the alleyway and was following him. Someone with a bad leg and a stick. To test
the man out, Nabber made a point of crossing the cobbled road.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

The man followed
suit. Now, looking like a penniless, scrawny low-life as he did, Nabber didn't
think old Bad Leg's intention was to rob him. Which left only two other
possibilities: Bad Leg was either a tunic-lifter, or one of Baralis' spies.
Either way, Nabber knew it was time to move on.

Remaining as calm
as Swift had taught him, he began to walk a little faster. Bad Leg matched him
step for mismatched step. He walked real fast for a man with a stick. Nabber's
eyes searched out likely doors and alleyways. He was beginning to feel a little
afraid.

Slap! Thump!
Tap!

Bad Leg was
gaining on him. The sound of his lurching footsteps sent a shiver down Nabber's
spine. There was no one on the streets to watch them pass. Straight ahead lay a
series of archways where the poultry sellers sold their birds by day. Nabber
knew this area well: swan and peacock sellers were famous for their loose
coinage. To the right was Duck's End, a short alleyway that most people
believed finished in a dead end. Nabber knew differently. A small drainage
tunnel led under the wall. If he hadn't grown too much in the past three weeks,
he should be able to squeeze through it. Old Bad Leg wouldn't stand a chance.

Nabber feinted to
the left, then waited until the last possible moment before cutting a sharp
right.

Slap! Thump!
Tap!