Master and Fool (8 page)

There was no
fooling Bad Leg.

Duck's End was a
dark spot in an already dark night. A trickle of sweat slid along Nabber's
temple and then down his cheek.
It's just getting a little hot around here,
he
told himself, wiping his face with his sleeve. Bad Leg was only a shadow behind
him now. Nabber picked up his pace. The ground was always wet in alleyways
regardless of the rain, and Nabber's shoes squelched with every step. The dead
end loomed close. The drainage tunnel was a black puddle at the bottom corner
of the wall. Nabber began to gravitate toward it.

Slap! Thump!
Tap!
So did Bad Leg.

Sweat was now
running unchecked down Nabber's cheek. The sound of the man's footsteps had his
nerves on edge. Feet away from the tunnel now, Nabber gave up all semblance of
dignity and made a run for it. Water splashed round his ankles, air raced past
his face. The violent thumping of his heart drowned out all other noise. A
whiff of air rose up from the tunnel: the foul stench meant freedom.

Feet first? Head
first? Nabber had only a split second to decide. Taking a deep breath, he dived
for the tunnel.

The entrance
engulfed him, dark and inviting. He slid down into its moist and furtive
depths. Hands, head, shoulders, body, legs ... Feet! Nabber felt something
clawing at his feet. Close to panicking, he kicked out wildly. His hands
searched the curved wall of the tunnel for something to grip on to. His kick
had no effect: Bad Leg's fingers still grasped at his feet. They felt like
talons.

Then a hand moved
up to his ankle. Nabber tried to crawl forward, but Bad Leg pulled him back.
The sheer strength of the pull took him by surprise. For some reason Nabber had
thought the man would be weak. Scrambling for a handhold, Nabber was dragged
from the tunnel. His belly scraped through the mud. His heart was beating so
fast it was surely going to burst. The hands moved up to his knees and one
sharp tug brought him out into the night.

Nabber twisted
around and came face to face with Bad Leg.

Dark though it
was, he recognized the man's features. Or at least the look of them.

Gripping his
wrist, the man smiled. "Nabber, isn't it?" he said. His voice was as
thin as wire. He was not out of breath, not even breathing fast. "You
might already know me. I'm Skaythe, Blayze's brother." He smiled again,
twisting Nabber's wrist behind his back. This time when he spoke, his breath
caught the side of Nabber's face. "We met the night of the fight. I was
Blayze's second."

Nabber tried not
to breathe in the man's breath-it smelled like sweet things turned bad. Skaythe
was a shorter, wiry, and less handsome version of his brother. His teeth were
like Blayze's only slightly crooked, his eyes were a little narrower, and his
lips, unlike his brother's full and sculpted one's, were nothing more than a
jagged line. He didn't have Blayze's flair for fashion, either-his clothes were
plain and boasted no frills. He was strong, though. Nabber couldn't remember
ever having felt a grip so powerful.

"What d'you
want with me, then?" said Nabber, trying very hard to inject a measure of
defiance into his voice. Another twist of his wrist was all it got him.
"You know what I want, boy," hissed Skaythe. "I want Tawl."

Nabber tried to
pull free, but the grip just got tighter. "And you're going to take me to
him."

Something glinted,
catching Nabber's eye. It was the tip of Skaythe's stick; molded onto the end
of the wood was a spike of darkened steel. Nabber's heart stopped at the sight
of it. The spike came toward his face.

"Where is
he?"

Nabber wasn't at
all sure if he was pleased when his heart started again, as it seemed to have
moved up toward his throat. "I don't know where Tawl is. I ain't seen him
since the night of the murder."

Skaythe drew the
spike under Nabber's chin. Its progress was so smooth that only the warm
trickle following it told of its slicing action. Nabber froze.

"Tell me
where Tawl is, or I'll cut more than just skin next time."

Nabber didn't
doubt he was a man of his word. "Tawl's in the north of the city-hiding
out in Old Knackers Lane." The spike came close once more. "Why you
in the south, then, boy?"

Unable to move
forward, Nabber slumped back against the man's side. The action forced Skaythe
to readjust his grip on the stick. Nabber used this diversion to raise his
right knee and then slam his heel into Skaythe's bad leg.

Skaythe stumbled
back. Nabber kicked his stick near the base, stopping him from gaining his
balance. He didn't wait around to see if it worked. Gathering all his strength,
Nabber sprang for the tunnel. Skaythe sprang after him. Nabber knew what to do
this time. Sprinting forward, he brought up his legs and leapt into the tunnel
feet first. The cool filth enveloped him. Skaythe grabbed at his hair. Much
though Nabber was attached to it, he snapped his head forward and let the locks
go.

Sidling down the
tunnel he made his escape. He was missing a fistful of hair, a cupful of blood,
and about ten years from the lifespan of his heart. It was time he went home to
Tawl.

Jack had, by means
most extraordinary, gained entry into the city of Annis. He was sitting around
a large, well-lit, well-burdened banquet table enjoying the somewhat skeptical
company of the Baking Master's Guild.

"How would
you slow down a dough that rises too fast?" asked Barmer, a baker with a
huge, bristling mustache and a face as red as the wine he was drinking.

"You put it
in a tub full of water and wait until it rises to the top." Jack's answer
met with grudging nods of approval.

He was getting
quite used to the interrogation. For the past hour and a half-ever since he was
caught outside the wall and dragged through a cleverly concealed gate into the
east side of the city-the members of the baking guild had been throwing him
questions to test his claim. It wasn't enough to say he was a baker, he had to
prove it as well.

"Any miller
could know that," said the only slim baker in the room, a hollow-cheeked
man named Nivlet.

"Let the lad
off the hook," said Eckles, the baker who had first slapped his pudgy hand
on Jack outside the city. "It's obvious he's one of us."

"No,
Eckles," countered Scuppit, a short baker with forearms as broad as hams.
"Nivlet's got a point. That is the sort of thing that a miller might know.
Best to ask the lad one more question, just to be safe."

"Aye,"
mumbled the rest of the bakers in disunion. They were about twenty in number,
and were all currently stuffing themselves with a banquet's worth of food. For
the first hour, Jack had looked on as the Baking Master's Guild discussed guild
business such as the rising cost of bread tax, the weight of a penny loaf, and
this year's candidates for apprenticeship.

Millers were the
enemy. The main aim of the Baking Master's Guild was to outlaw, outwit, and
outdo the Milling Master's Guild. Millers mixed cheap grains in with good,
milled flour either too coarsely or too finely, and had an unbreakable monopoly
on the price of meal. If you told a baker that a miller had murdered his family
and ate them for supper, the baker would nod and say: "Aye, and I bet he
saved their bones for his mill. " Millers were notorious for grinding
anything that could be ground, and then passing it off as flour.

Jack had stumbled
upon the Baking Master's Guild's monthly spying expedition. Eckles, who in
addition to being one of the guild chiefs was the only person who believed Jack
to be a baker from the start, had told him that once a month, when the Miller's
Guild were busy with their monthly meeting, the Baking Master's Guild sent
spies out to all the mills within a league of the city to check the miller's
stores. The number of grain bags at each mill was carefully counted and
recorded, and then, as the month progressed, the baker's would keep an eye to
the amount of flour produced from each individual mill, ensuring that any excess
was duly noted. Too much flour meant that foreign substances had been mixed in
with the grain.

Each baking master
was assigned a specific mill, and when the counting was done they met in the
bushes south of the city and smuggled themselves through the wall via the
hidden gate. Spying on fellow guilds was considered a thoroughly dishonorable
crime punishable by lifetime expulsion from the professional classes. The
Baking Master's Guild were taking quite a risk.

Jack rather
admired their nerve.

"All right,"
said Barmer, swallowing a mouthful of food. "Let's ask him a tough
one." The baker slipped a sweet roll between his lips to aid the thinking
process. "Nice texture, Scuppit," he remarked to the baker by his
side.

Scuppit bowed his
head graciously. "I added a halfmeasure of clotted cream to the
dough."

Barmer let the
bread roll on his tongue. "Never tasted better, my friend." He
swallowed and then turned his attention back to Jack. "Very well, lad,
what sort of buttermilk is best for unfermented bread? Fresh or sour?"

Jack was beginning
to enjoy himself. He liked the bakers; they were a good-humored group who loved
their creature comforts and were passionate about their trade.
"Sour," said Jack. 'The soda in sour buttermilk will help a flat
bread rise." Eckles looked up from his food. 'The boy knows his stuff,
Barmer."

"Mat he
does," agreed Scuppit.

"I still
don't trust him," said Nivlet.

Barmer waggled a
bread roll at Jack. "All right. One last question, lad. If you add more
yeast to make the dough rise faster, will you need to add more salt, as
well?"

"No. Too much
salt slows down the yeast." Jack smiled at the company of bakers.
"And makes the crust too firm."

Barmer stood up,
walked over to Jack, and clapped him hard on the back. "Welcome to the
guild," he said. Food permitting, other bakers followed his lead, and Jack
was slapped, patted, nudged, and even kissed in congratulation. All came
forward except Nivlet, who sat back in his chair, eyeing Jack with open
suspicion. After watching the backslapping for some time, Nivlet left the room.

"Eat, boy,
eat," said Eckles. "The Baking Master's Guild never lets a guest go
hungry."

Jack didn't need
much encouragement. He hadn't eaten since breakfast-which seemed at least two
days back now--and the food in front of him looked a lot more appetizing than
anything Stillfox had ever cooked. Glistening baked hams rested beside pies as
large as butter churns, cheeses were split open and stuffed with fruit, and fat
strings of crisp-skinned sausages shared bowls with roasted onions. Everywhere
there was bread: barmcakes, soda rolls, sweet breads, bloomers, griddlecakes,
and loaves. Jack had never seen such a variety. They were glorious to behold;
some with hearty crusts, others softly glazed or sprinkled with seeds, many had
been slashed before baking to give interest to the tooth, and a few had been
formed into shapes as elaborate as could be. All of them were fresh, fragrant,
and cooked to perfection.

As Jack ate, he
began to feel guilty about his treatment of Stillfox. The herbalist had been
kind to him-teaching, feeding, healing, asking no awkward questions-and he had
repaid it all by storming out in a fit of indignant anger. Jack shook his head
slowly. Tomorrow he would go back to the cottage; he wouldn't apologize for his
words-for he said only what he truly felt-but he would apologize for his anger
and the way in which he left. He owed Stillfox that much.

With that decision
made, Jack poured himself a cup of ale. For ten weeks the herbalist had treated
him well, and it didn't seem right to let one bad incident come between them.
Jack downed the thick country beer, relishing its bitter taste. Hadn't Falk
told him all those months ago to accept people for what they are, with all
their faults and frailties? Stillfox had accepted
him,
not blinking an
eye about him being a wanted war criminal and a dangerously unstable sorcery
user. So, thought Jack, if
he
had faults, surely he should make
allowances for them in others? Yes, Stillfox had kept something from him, but
perhaps his motives had been nothing but good.

Jack's eyes
focused on a far distant point. He no longer saw the baker's lodge; he saw
Rovas' cottage and Tarissa by the fire. A world of good motives couldn't
justify what she had done to him. And then there was his mother with her
half-truths and her desire for death. And back a decade more was his father: a
man who had left him before he was born. Both his parents had deserted him, and
no amount of excuses could talk their deeds away.

Here, in the
baker's lodge, with a score of noisy bakers busily eating themselves sick, Jack
began to wonder if there was purpose behind the pain. Did his mother's death,
his father's abandonment, and Tarissa's betrayal mean something?

Jack's cup was
filled by an attentive pudgy hand. "Deep in thought, eh?" said
Eckles.

Jack was annoyed
at the distraction. There had been an instant where he felt the answer was
within reach. Eckles' words had chased it away.

"You best
come with me now, lad. Bring your cup and as much food as you can hold."
Eckles began to walk toward a side door and Jack followed him bringing only his
cup. His appetite had left him. The huge, round-faced baker led him to a small
sitting room where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. "Sit. Sit,"
he said, motioning to a bench that was pulled up to the grate.

Jack did as he was
told. "Are you going back to the meeting?" he asked. Obviously the
Baking Master's Guild had secret matters to discuss.

"Me?
No." Eckles shook his head firmly. "I've heard it all before, and I
already know the outcome." He didn't as much sit as land on the bench next
to Jack. "They're deciding whether to make their ancient prophecy be
known."