Master and Fool (76 page)

The knights hacked
at the guards with all the speed and enthusiasm of troops new to the battle.
Tawl caught his breath for a moment. Melli was at his side, and although he was
still holding her hand, he reached up and brushed her cheek with his sword arm.
He couldn't touch her enough. Smiling up at him, she said, "I'd almost
given up hope." He kissed her, then. Blistered lips on blistered lips,
tearwet noses touching, eyes open to see one another, frightened that if they
closed them the other person might disappear. Tawl knew then that it wasn't
just about saving himself. It was about love as well. Melli was more than half
a bargain: she was the woman he loved. And perhaps, Borc willing, at the end of
everything there might be a way for them to be together. If it all turned out
all right.

"Where's
Crayne and the others?" It was Andris. He was wiping his blade against his
leg. The two guards were down. One of the other knights, Gervhay, the youngest,
had his bow strung, ready to pick off anyone who came down the corridor.

Tawl looked down
at the floor. The end was a long way off: too long to even think about.
"They're dead. Baralis killed them."

Andris nodded.
Tawl knew he had been expecting just such an answer.
"Thes ve esrl,
"
he said.

Tawl, Gervhay, and
Corvis repeated it. They
were
worthy. There was no time to mourn. Andris
barked an order and everyone began to run down the corridor toward the tunnel entrance.
Faces were grim, grips were tight, and when anyone crossed their path they were
hewn down within seconds. Gervhay's arrows never missed, Andris' blade dealt
only mortal blows, and Corvis' long-knife found heart after beating heart.
Blood covered them and dried on them, filling their nostrils with its
life-stealing scent. Everything was smeared red: the walls, the shadows, the
guards, their sight. Nothing was untouched by the taint.

Finally they
reached the passage entrance. Their pursuers were all dead or dying, and Andris
raised the curtain that covered the panel.

That was when Tawl
heard it.

He was bringing up
the rear, trailing behind the rest, spearing bodies with his sword, ensuring
that no one was left alive to report which way they headed, when an
unmistakable sound rang out in the distance.

As soon as he
heard the noise, he looked to Melli. Andris had just beckoned her forward and
she was about to squeeze her body into the tunnel. She didn't look up at the
sound. None of them did.

Tawl made a quick
decision. He waited until all four of them were in the tunnel before
approaching the entrance. "I want you to go on ahead. Get out of here. Go
straight to the hideout and wait for me."

Andris shook his
head. "No, Tawl. We go together."

"There's something
here I've got to look into. I'll just be a few extra minutes, that's all."

"Tawl, don't
leave me. Not now." It was Melli, calling from the shadows of the
passageway. She sounded afraid. He reached out a hand, feeling for her touch.
"As Borc is my witness, I swear I won't do anything foolish. I'll be back
by your side before the night is through."

Melli's fingers
clasped his. "I love you," she said. Despite everything that had
happened that nightdespite the blood, the carnage, the loss of his friends
---the
moment Melli said those words Tawl felt a joy so intense he thought his heart
would break. He reached up and kissed her hand. "I love you," he said
softly into the darkness. "I promise you I will return."

Letting go of her
hand was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. His soul, his heart,
his muscles, and his mind did not want to let her go, but he had just heard the
sound of a baby crying and he knew he must follow his oath.

"Ssh for
Nanny Greal, my little one. Ssh for Nanny Greal." Mistress Greal held the
baby to her and rocked it gently against her bony breast. Every now and then
she would make cooing noises and offer her forger up for sucking.

Little
Herbert-named after Mistress Greal and Madame Thornypurse's father, Herbert
Skinflynt Grealhad never cried before at night. He was so weak that he slept
most of the time, and the few hours a day he was awake he was as quiet as a
lamb. He was the tiniest baby Mistress Greal had ever seen. Even now, three
weeks after his birth, he hardly weighed a thing. His fists were as light as
dandelions and his precious little head felt like a pincushion in her hand. He
was early, that was the problem. Pushed out before his time by his tart of a
mother, Melli, who didn't have the backbone to carry him to term.

Herbert shifted in
Mistress Greal's arms, opened his blue eyes wide, and began to bellow at the
top of his lungs. "Ssh, my little one. Ssh." Mistress Greal rocked,
cooed, squeezed, cradled and, when that didn't work, panicked. It was the wee
hours of the morning and sound could travel a long way in the stone-cold
silence before dawn. Mistress Greal carried the baby across the room, opened
the wardrobe, stepped inside, and drew the door shut behind her.

The baby reacted
to the changes in light and warmth by crying louder.

Mistress Greal
bounced little Herbert tenderly in her arms. "Ssh, Nanny Greal won't hurt
you. No, not Nanny Greal. Nanny Greal loves little Herby. Yes, she does. Yes,
she does."

The words began to
have a calming effect on the baby, and Mistress Greal carried on talking whilst
he drifted off to sleep. Standing in the dark, back pressed up against her
winter robes, legs aching from lack of movement, baby sucking on her thumb,
Mistress Greal felt a protective tightening in her chest. Herby was hers now
and no one could take him away. She hadn't meant to love him. She had taken him
purely for spite. Baralis had murdered her beloved niece, Corsella, and that
meant he had to pay. Mistress Greal had simply taken something to use as a
weapon against him. Little Herbert was more dangerous than any army: he was the
true heir to Brenhe had the birthmark of the Hawk on his left ankle to prove
it. All Mistress Greal had to do was let the word out that the baby was alive,
well, and legitimate, and the good people of Bren would rebel against Kylock.
They would take the duke's son over a foreign tyrant any day of the week.
Baralis would find himself thrown out of the city, and if things went right,
hounded until death.

That was the plan,
anyway: revenge. But something had happened to Mistress Greal when she held the
tiny newborn baby in her hands, and now Baralis and his schemes didn't seem
nearly so important.

The baby was so
frail, that was what had got her started. He needed care day and night, needed
feeding through a dripping cloth and massaging with warm oil. He was helpless
without her. All he could do was lie on his blanket and kick his tiny fists and
feet. Mistress Greal had never been married, never had a child of her own,
never knew what it felt like to have someone entirely dependent on her. The
baby loved her, trusted her--she was the only person who mattered in its short
and innocent life. The baby wasn't weaseling, ungrateful, or money-grabbing; he
wasn't out to fleece her of her loot, or rob her of her business. He just
wanted to feel her arms around him and suck on her thumb.

Gradually, over
the course of a few days, Mistress Greal found herself in the unheard-of
situation of wanting to give: her time, love, money, protection. Nothing was
too much when it came to keeping Herbert safe.

Baralis was a
murderer: he had killed the baby's father and half-sister. To try and take him
on was more than foolish, it was suicide. She would only put herself and the
baby at risk. The best thing she could do would be to steal away from the
palace, leave the city, travel back to the kingdoms, and never let a living
person know the true identity of her baby. Mistress Greal brushed Herbert's
baby curls with her hand. Tomorrow she would go and see her sister and make
arrangements to liquidate her assets. Tonight had proven that it was much too
dangerous to keep the baby in the palace. He couldn't be blamed for crying, but
he couldn't be stopped, either. It was time to take him far away from danger.

Mistress Greal pushed
her elbow against the wardrobe door and stepped out once more into the light
and warmth of her chamber. It was very late now and she wanted to get a few
hours sleep before dawn.

Just as she was
about to lay Herbert down in the shallow chest that had become his crib, the
bones in Mistress Greal's wrist snapped into a cramp. The sharp pain caused her
to release her grip on Herbert's legs and sent the baby's bottom thumping down
onto the blanketed base of the chest. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough
to wake up the baby and set him off in an indignant bawl.

Mistress Greal was
frantic. "Ssh. Ssh," she cried, picking him up again and rocking him
to and fro. "Come on, my little Herbert. Ssh for Nanny Greal."

Tawl was about to
give up, when he heard the baby crying again. Very close now. He stopped in his
tracks and tried to pinpoint the sound. Ahead, to the left and down a level.
Checking the corridors to either side for guards, he made his way forward.

As far as he could
tell he was no longer in the main part of the nobles' quarters; there were
fewer lit torches on the walls, no hanging tapestries, and no stationed guards.
Occasionally he would hear footsteps sounding in the distance, but no one
appeared to be heading his way. Tawl was grateful for the opportunity to catch
his breath, but he was taking no chances, and paused constantly to check his
back. Dim light was a definite advantage, and he had taken to extinguishing the
odd torch here and there to add to the gloom.

Coming upon a
short flight of stairs, he headed downward. The crying had stopped now, but
Tawl guessed he was very close to the source, and when the stairs ended in a
circular gallery, he made straight for the door on the left.

Putting his ear to
the wood, he heard a woman's voice. She was speaking in the peculiar, singsong
tones that mothers use on their babies. Tawl took a settling breath. He knew it
was quite possible that the baby within might be someone other than Melli's,
but he had to know for sure. He had swum an oath to the duke to protect his
wife
and
his heirs, and if there was even a remote possibility that his
son still lived, then Tawl was honor-bound to protect him.

Gently, Tawl
tested the door. It was bolted on the other side. He hadn't wanted to go
barging in, but there was nothing else for it. Pivoting on one leg, he aimed a
kick at the center of the door.

The door swung
back. The woman screamed. The baby started to cry.

Raising his sword
arm in a gesture of no contest, Tawl entered the room. Immediately the woman
sprang at him. She had a knife in her hand and stabbed straight at his chest.
Tawl brought down his arm to block the blow and caught the full impact of the
blade just below his shoulder. Pain shot along his upper arm, bringing sharp
tears to his eyes. Anger made him lash out with his fist, and he clipped the
woman's lower jaw. She went reeling backward, flaying out her arms to break her
fall. She landed in the corner by the baby. Tawl immediately rushed to her aid.
The woman still had hold of her knife and stabbed at the air between them.
"Keep away from me and my baby," she cried.

Tawl backed away.
His arm was bleeding badly and he clamped his palm over the wound. "Your
baby?" The woman looked far too old to be the mother of a young child.

"My
daughter's baby," replied the woman. "Now get out of here before I
call the guard."

Ignoring the
threat, Tawl peered into the chest. The baby was tiny, no more than a newborn.
Its little hands were curled into fists and it was crying with a sort of amazed
abandon, as if it were surprised by how much noise it could make. Tawl raised
the tip of his sword toward the woman. "Make it stop crying."

As the woman
scrambled up, he cut across the room and closed the door. Tearing off a strip
of fabric from his tunic, he attempted to bind his wound. It wasn't easy; there
was a lot of blood and he had to use his left hand to tie the knot. He fastened
it as tight as he could bear, and then pushed his fist into the center of the
bloody rag. The pain forced his eyes closed for an instant before subsiding to
a biting ache.

Holding his fist
firm, he turned to look at the woman. She had the baby in her arms and was
calming it with a stream of mother's talk. Tawl thought the woman had rather a
sharp and grating voice, but the baby responded to the sound, and his cries
soon gave way to gurgles.

"Bring it
over here so I can look at it," he said. The woman snatched the baby to
her chest.

Tawl suddenly felt
very weary. It had been a long hard day and he just wanted it to end.
"Lady, I have no wish to harm you or your baby, but I do need to take a
look at the child." As he spoke, he sheathed his sword---his right arm was
too weak to wield it, and his left arm was not trained for heavy weapons. He
pulled out his long-knife instead. "Now bring it here."

The woman's eyes
flicked to the long-knife. "Who are you?"

Tawl was losing
patience. He crossed the room. "Give me the baby."

"I'll
scream."

"I don't
think you will."

The woman gave him
a sharp look and offered the baby forward.

Tawl watched her
carefully. He had seen how fast she was with a knife. He decided to take no
chances. "Lay it on the bed. Strip its clothes off."

The woman did as
she was told, leaving only the nappy and woolen bedsocks on the baby.
"Stand over in the comer while I take a look at it," said Tawl,
pointing the blade of the long-knife at her chest. She hesitated "Go!
"

Tawl moved to the
opposite side of the bed so he could keep an eye on the woman. He reached out
and touched the baby. It was still awake and it looked up at Tawl with unfocused
blue eyes. Eyes the color and shape of Melli's. "How old is"--Tawl
couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl-"it?"