Master and Fool (10 page)

Yellow and black.
The colors of Valdis.

Suddenly the back
door of the building opened, and the backyard was flooded with light. Nabber
dived for the shadows behind the horse. Something sharp caught at his left
shin, and he had to clench his teeth together to stop himself from crying out.

A figure moved
into the doorway, blocking out part of the light. Nabber used the cover of
increased shadow to move into the corner where the building and the wall met.
The jutting timber the horse was tethered to provided further cover.

Not dating to rub
his throbbing shin, Nabber brought his hand to his throat. The cut that Skaythe
had opened earlier was encrusted with dried blood. It stung when he touched it.
Nabber gulped. He should have followed his first instinct and run straight home
to Tawl.

The figure moved
from the doorway into the yard, and then a second, taller man followed.

"The guards
at the west gate will turn a blind eye as you pass," said the second man
to the first.

Nabber rubbed at
the dried blood on his throat. That voice belonged to Baralis.

"Like a
gaggle of maidservants on a wedding night, you think of everything, Baralis.
"

The dark figure
that Nabber now knew to be Baralis bowed toward the stranger. "I do my
best."

Both men took a
few steps in Nabber's direction. Nabber could now smell the scent of the
stranger: exotic, foreign fragrances and horse sweat. His dark hair was slick
with oil and his teeth flashed white as he spoke.

"You do know
Kylock is camped outside the south gate?" he said, bringing a forger up to
his temple to smooth a misplaced hair. Although he was wearing a leather tunic,
he made no sound as he moved.

"There's no
need to bother the king with the details of our little meeting," said
Baralis smoothly.

"My thoughts
exactly," replied the stranger after a carefully lazy pause. Just how
careful the pause was could be judged from watching the man's left hand. As
Nabber looked on, the stranger balled his hand into a fist and relaxed it five
times before speaking.

Judging from the
colors of his horse's bridle, the stranger had something to do with Valdis. And
although Nabber didn't know much about these things, he had a feeling the man
was more than just a knight.

The stranger moved
toward his horse. Nabber pressed his body flat against the wall. The horse
nickered softly. The stranger's hand automatically came up to calm the animal,
but Baralis chose that moment to speak, so his attention was diverted away.

"In
fact," said Baralis, moving toward the horse, "the less the king
knows about our ... how should I put it? ... our
understanding,
the
better. After all, he will soon have a new marriage, a new bride, and a new
dukedom to contend with. I see no need to bother him with the petty details of
power." Nabber shivered. There was something about Baralis' voice that
chilled him through and through.

"Yes,"
agreed the stranger. "Whatever religious activities transpire in Helch and
any other occupied territories should be of little interest to the king."
The stranger's voice wasn't as cold and deadly as Baralis'; it was smoother and
more detached. In fact, everything about the stranger was smooth: his leather
tunic, his oiled hair, his movements.

"Know this,
my friend," Baralis said. "The king's feelings in this matter are
exactly the same as my own. As long as the knights join us on the field, and
order is maintained in the occupied territories, we care little about your
intent"

The stranger
smiled. His teeth were small and perfectly even. Once again, he paused before
speaking. Three fists this time. "I'm glad to hear the king has the same
feelings about religion as we do." The faint hint of mockery in his voice
trailed away as he spoke the next sentence. "The north has been too long
under the spiritual guidance of Silbur and Marls and Rom. We shouldn't be
beholden to the whims of a southern Church."

The stranger took
a breath, preparing to speak again, but Baralis cut him short:

"Do whatever
you have to do, Tyren. Just keep Helch on its knees until Highwall is broken,
and no questions will be asked about your motives."

Tyren.
A
hard lump rose in Nabber's throat. He tried to breathe and found he couldn't.
Tyren was the leader of the knights. He was Tawl's idol, his savior, his
mentor. And here he was making secret deals with Baralis that involved
performing Borc-only-knew what atrocities on the unsuspecting people of Helch.
Nabber wasn't fooled by the words "religious activities." He'd lived
with smooth-talkers for too long not to see the truth behind a well-chosen
phrase. Tyren wanted to convert the people of Helch to his own religious
doctrines, and judging from what had been said tonight in this yard, neither he
nor Baralis were fussy about the means.

Listening to the
two men plotting, Nabber vehemently wished that he had never stumbled upon the
meeting. This wasn't the sort of information Tawl would thank him for coming
back with. In fact, Nabber was beginning to wonder if he should keep the
details to himself. It would crush Tawl to find out the truth about Tyren. The
leader of the knighthood was the one person left in whom Tawl had any faith.

Nabber felt a
sharp pain in his neck. Without realizing it, he had pulled the scab off his
throat. Skaythe's spike wound reopened and a trickle of blood slid down
Nabber's tunic. He forced himself to breathe, taking fast, feather-light
breaths. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm.

Baralis and Tyren
had been speaking all the while, and as Nabber concentrated upon what they were
saying once more, Tyren reached over to untie the reins of his horse.

Baralis spoke.
"I don't want to hear any rumors of torture or worse coming out of Helch.
Whatever you choose to do, it must be done quietly. It's too early in the game
to risk the south getting wind of our plans."

"Don't worry,
Baralis," Tyren said, long, gold-ringed fingers tugging gently on the
reins to loosen the knot. "I'll make sure that nothing leaks out. There
are countless different methods for discrediting a tattletale, and more than
half a dozen ways to kill one."

As Tyren was
speaking his eyes flicked from the wooden beam to the horse. For the briefest
instant, he looked straight into the dark corner where the wall and building
met. Less than six paces away from where he stood, separated only by the horse
and its shadow and the wooden holding beam, Nabber tensed.

Tyren hesitated
for a second. His hand moved from the reins to his face. He peered into the
darkness.

The lump returned
to Nabber's throat. It was as heavy as lead this time. Sweat trickled down his
nose.

Suddenly the horse
pulled on its reins, stepping away from the wall. Tyren was forced to move
along with it in order to keep hold of the reins.

"Well,
Tyren," said Baralis, nodding at the horse. "It looks as if your
gelding is eager to be on his way. I think our business for this night is
complete. We both see eye to eye on the religious future of the north."

Tyren checked the
position of the saddle and the buckles on the stirrups and then mounted the
horse. "And when the king decides to expand his empire outwards?" he
said, settling himself down in the saddle. "I trust Valdis will be allowed
to address the religious practices of the south, as well?" Baralis smiled
slowly. "Oh, most especially the south." Hearing Baralis' words,
Nabber's stomach collapsed inwards, leaving an aching hollow in his chest. He
felt as if he might be sick.

Tyren nodded,
satisfied Baralis looked on as he guided his horse toward the gate. Neither man
bid the other farewell.

Baralis stood in
the center of the fan of light escaping from the doorway and watched as Tyren
rode away. When the sound of the horses' hooves could no longer be heard,
Baralis took a thin breath and then smiled.

"Tavalisk,"
he said softly, speaking into the darkness, "it may have taken me nearly
twenty years, but I will have my revenge."

Baralis waited a
moment longer and then turned and walked back to the building.

As soon as the
door closed behind him, Nabber took a long, deep breath. He thanked Borc and
the spirit of Swift's dead mother for keeping him safe and sound-he even
thanked the horse. Sending his right hand down to explore his throbbing shin,
he discovered a large, bloody lump that was unbelievably tender to the touch.
The spike wound on his throat was still bleeding, and his tunic was soaked in
sweat. Although there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than to run
as fast as he could from the yard, Nabber forced himself to stay put until the
lights went out. Even then he didn't dare move until a fair length of time had
passed. He was taking no more chances tonight. Chased, accosted, threatened,
trapped, and very nearly caught: he'd had quite enough excitement to last him
all his life. Well, certainly a good part of it.

Stiff from
standing still for so long, cold, tired, and shivering, Nabber made his way out
of the yard. He couldn't muster any enthusiasm for throwing potential pursuers
off his track and took the shortest, quickest route back to Tawl.

It had been a long
time since Kylock last measured the powder as Baralis had taught him. No longer
did he bother to spread only enough grain to cover the dip in his palm. Now he
took his drug by the fistful. Into his glass he sprinkled it, the powder
flashing as quick and bright as an arrowhead shot to a mark. A cup of red wine
wetted it for the taking. Only when the powder had been washed down his throat
could Kylock breathe easy again.

The terrible
flashes when his skull crushed his mind, and when his thoughts turned inside
out revealing the raw meat of brain beneath, would ease for a while now. The
drug
did
that at least.

As he drew the
glass to his lips a second time, two guards carried the girl's body away from
the tent. It had been an especially unpleasant attack. Passion brought out more
than the beast in him.

"Get her hand
off the floor," he commanded to the men. The fools were carrying her too
low and her hand was trailing the length of his carpet. It was tainted now,
along with the pillows and the sheets. The whole place reeked of her.
Everything would have to be destroyed. Kylock pushed past the men to the tent
flap and made his way into the night.

The sky was always
dark when he was under it. And Kylock was not displeased to note that Bren's
purple-andblack expanse acted no differently from the rest.

They were camping
just south of the city--so close they could see the walls, taste the wood
smoke, and hear the wagons creaking through the streets. Kylock cast his gaze
upon the high battlements of Bren. Yes. This city was for him. Not an
overbloated town like Harvell, not an ancient shabby hovel like Helch, but a
glorious youthful city, growing, burgeoning: a terrible child. Bren didn't sit
in its own squalor like other cities: the mountain air carried off the stench
each night and the rain washed the dirt to the lake.

The lake, the
mountains, the walls: Bren's defenses were unmatched in the Known Lands. It was
made to be the center of an empire. The long line of its dukes had prepared the
city for him, constructing strong walls, impregnable gatehouses, and ringing
the city with a network of portcullises. Now that they had done their job, it
was fitting they were gone. Bren had seen the last of its dukes.

Kylock drank the
last sip from his glass. The drug was a sweetener for the wine. The smell of
roasting flesh met his nostrils and he guessed the guards had thrown the girl
on the fire. Burning was the best way to render a corpse unrecognizabie. No one
but he and the guards would know who the girl was or what had become of her.
Her chest cavity would be split by the actions of the flame, and her two broken
wrists would be reduced to so many charred and disjointed bones. Kylock
shrugged. It might even burn the expression of tenor right off her pretty face.
She would just be another diseasewracked whore who was torched for the good of
the camp.

He was feeling a
lot better now. The drug was working its commission: the world was heavier,
darker, and infinitely more solid under its thrall. It calmed the rage inside.
Something alarming was happening to him. More and more he lost control of
himself: violent schisms ripped through his body and his thoughts. Always there
was the taste of metal in his mouth. Just earlier, when he was abed with the
girl-when he had tied her wrists to the post and her neck to the board, and
when the wax was hot enough to blister-his body had been racked by a violent
contraction. It was as if a hand had squeezed his gut, sending bile flooding to
his mouth. His brain grew large, or his skull shrunk small, and suddenly his
thoughts were too many to be contained. A shocking pressure built up within and
the only way to release it was to tear at the girl beneath.

He fell on her
like an animal. Teeth became fangs and fingers became talons. Blackness came to
overwhelm him, and by fighting the girl he fought the monster off. If she
screamed, he never heard it; if she struggled, he never noticed. All he felt
was the cooling spray of her blood on his cheek and the feeble push of her
second to last breath. By the time she took her last, he had clawed his way
back to the light. Gut rested against liver once more and the pressure had
lifted from his head. A trickle of his own blood had run down from his nose,
and he spat in a cloth to remove the aftertaste from his mouth.

"A missive
has arrived from Halcus, sire."

Kylock spun
around. He had not heard the guard approach. As the man handed him the sealed
parchment, he noticed the guard's eyes fall to his tunic. The girl's blood
formed a dark patch upon the gold. Kylock spoke very softly. "Blood
spilled in secret is a bond between men. Go now, my friend, and tell no one of
what you saw."