Master and Fool (21 page)

Grift laid a
hand on his shoulder. "Don't do anything foolish, lad."

Melli, Maybor,
and Rodger raced down the stairs and to the kitchens, Melli pausing once to
mouth the words, Take care. Jack was relieved when Melli was gone. At least she
stood a chance of escaping now.

Jack's relief
was short-lived, as another jolting blow came against the door. The first of
the hinges gave way. The timbers began to crack and separate. Then,
straightaway, another blow followed. The second hinge caved. The whole door
fell back, the plank giving way ahead of it.

Jack glanced
toward the kitchen-the others had been gone less than a minute. He had to give
them time.

The door
collapsed backward in a cloud of dust and splinters. Jack drew his blade and
stepped forward. Two men with halberds came to meet him, stepping over the
remains of the door. They wore the colors of the Royal Guard. There were more
men behind; Jack couldn't tell how many. He had to make sure they all came
after him: Melli needed time to escape.

Halberds jabbed
at his gut. Jack could not stop the two men from moving forward. A knife was no
match for a halberd in length, and he was forced to back away from them.

Jack's thoughts
were with Melli. He wanted to go after her, make sure there were no guards
round the back. She wouldn't be able to defend herself. She was pregnant!

The guards
coming through the door angered him: they were preventing him from going to
Melli's side. As he dodged their thrusts, stepping ever backward, a familiar
tension began to build within Jack. It was fueled by the thought of Melli being
captured, hurt, abused. Tight bands of pressure clasped against skull, his
stomach began to contract. He didn't fight it. Instead he let it build,
encouraging, shaping, working on the very air itself.

The entry hall
was full of guards now. Jack took one final step back, and found himself
against a wall.

One blade
against seven men with halberds--he wouldn't stand a chance.

Jack
deliberately pushed his thoughts on to Melli, her plight, her safety: anger
rose more easily that way. And anger was what he wanted: it was the only thing
that would provide a spark.

The guards
moved forward warily. Even with his thoughts in another place, Jack still took
defensive actions with his blade, aiming deep, circular thrusts at the men.

Jack's mind was
on the air immediately in front of him. He perceived its loose-knitted nature;
he felt it dance. Someone swung a halberd at his face. Jack dodged-with the
wall behind him there was nothing else he could do. Split seconds were all that
he had.

He concentrated
on the air, gathering it close, thickening. It fought, then beguiled him. Jack
ignored both. He felt a spike jab into his arm, then the axlike blade of a
halberd ran across his shoulder. Wildly, he swung his knife. Desperate, scared,
back against the wall, Jack willed the air into a ball. At that instant his
stomach contracted sharply. He tasted metal on his tongue. The pressure in his
head was unbearable. In his mind Melli ran through the streets chased by
guards.

The air became
heavy like oil. It roiled in upon itself as it contracted. The guards began to
back away. It was impossible to breathe. Jack felt the sorcery on his tongue.
He held it in till he could take no more, and then pushed it toward the
thickening air.

The air blasted
forward, hitting the guards full on. Three men slammed into the front wall.
Another hit the doorframe, and another shot through the doorway. Jack was
pinned against the wall by the sheer force of the backlash. The noise was
deafening, painful. Jack's ears ached. He still couldn't breathe. The sickening
crack of breaking bones tore through the air. If anyone had breath to scream,
Jack didn't hear them.

Then, just as
quickly as it started, the chaos ended. The air shimmered, then stilled. Scraps
of fabric, hair, dust, and skin came floating to the floor. Jack took a deep,
gulping breath. His body, released from the push of the backlash, slumped
forward, and he had to grab onto the nearest timber to stop himself from
falling to his knees.

He was weak,
dazed. His body seemed heavier than he remembered it.

Before him lay
the results of his drawing. The hallway looked as if it had been hit by a
tornado. Chunks of wood and carpet lay scattered about the doorframe. The door
itself had been ripped apart. Some of the men were groaning, rubbing blood from
their faces, or testing their broken limbs by attempting to stand. Some made no
noise; the effort of moving their heads from the floor, or their arms from
beneath their bodies, consumed what little strength they had left. Some didn't
move at all.

Jack turned
away. He had seen enough. Looking down at his hand, he saw that through all of
it he had still kept his grip on his blade. Rovas would have been proud. Jack
managed a grim smile. It was time to catch up with Melli.

If he was away
from a city for too long, Nabber began to suffer withdrawal pains. City life
was in his blood. He fed off the excitement on the streets: the tension of
choosing a mark, the thrill of the lift, and the pleasure of a move well taken.
There was nothing else like it. The city was full of wonders: fragrant rubbish
piles that needed investigating, wads of coinage crying out to be circulated,
and dodgylooking characters spoiling for a fight. Everywhere people were
cutting deals, exchanging goods, and selling services. Business was being done.

Being a man of
business himself, it was the commerce that Nabber missed the most. Why, out
here in the fields, the only deals to be struck were with field mice and
farmers! A man might as well curl up in the wheat and sleep until harvest.

Not that
curling up in these fields would be a good idea. Not unless you fancied being
baked to a crisp along with the kernels. Nabber shook his head slowly as he
focused his gaze toward the stream of black smoke gathering on the horizon.
Kylock was burning the fields.

All morning Nabber
had passed company upon company of soldiers, all carrying torches and wooden
casks. Nabber didn't know about such things, but he was sure the casks were
filled with just the sort of thing to make the fields burn faster. Probably
kerosene, he concluded-either that or rat oil. Whatever it was, it was doing a
fine job. The smell of burning dominated the early afternoon air, flakes of
burnt matter sailed with the breeze, and the column of thick smoke drew nearer
by the minute. All the crops that weren't ready for harvest were being burned.

Now, normally
Nabber would have liked to stay around and see the burning for himself
firsthand, but he found himself uncharacteristically sobered by the torching.
Somehow it made the war seem real and inevitable. Yes, there had been talk of
it for weeks-even months-but it hadn't appeared real to Nabber until now. The
burning field represented the reality of war: the heedless destruction, the
wasted resources, and the sheer madness of it all.

The soldiers
with the torches were happy, festive, glad to be doing something rather than
passively waiting for the enemy. The farmers and village folk were in a frenzy,
some attacking the soldiers with their pitchforks and clubs, others busy
harvesting what they could, whilst a few sat by the roadside and wept.

For the most
part, Nabber tried to steer well clear of it all. He picked quiet lanes lined
with summer crops that had already been harvested and sleepy little hamlets
that dealt in livestock not grain. Still, nothing could stop his gaze from
wandering to the black smoke on the horizon and his small shoulders shuddering
when he thought of what was to come.

Everyone was on
the move. The main roads were packed with people heading into Bren. They were
seeking protection from Highwall's army behind the city walls. Whole families
with laden mules and livestock walked beside monks from monasteries with carts
full of wine and millers with sacks full of grain, rolling their millstones
before them. Soldiers, knights, and mercenaries barged through the crowds,
spurs drawing blood, their warhorses baring yellowing teeth. Young women,
livestock, produce, and horses were regularly snatched from the throng.
Anything the troops fancied they took. Old women screamed as their spring lambs
were loaded onto wagons and their household belongings trampled to kindling in
the fray. Chickens' necks snapped as soldiers twisted them, and children wailed
as their mothers were dragged away.

Nabber didn't
like any of it. He'd never experienced war before and was quite certain he
would rather do without it now.

Yet, he
thought, stretching the word as long as the treacherous notion that sparked it,
there was money to be made during war. Bags full of it. There was
black-marketing, hoarding, confiscations, extortion, and profiteering to name
but a few. Which, at the end of the day, was why he really needed to be in the
city: opportunity beckoned him from Bren's fair streets, and here he was, stuck
in the country, unable to heed its call.

In fact, if he
hadn't been on a mission from a beautiful high-born lady, he would never have
left in the first place. Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true-in his heart
he did want to find Tawl-but why was it that good deeds always conflicted with
commerce? Why couldn't he do something good and earn money from it?

Nabber spat,
smoothed back his hair, hitched up his britches, and turned away from the smoke
and burning crops. He couldn't afford to waste any more time dawdling around,
wishing he was back in the city one moment, feeling guilty the next. It just
wasn't productive. His mission was to find Tawl and give him Bevlin's letter,
and that was what he had to concentrate on. It was about time he used his head.

Since he left
Bren yesterday, he had spent his time visiting all the nearby towns and
villagers, looking for any sign that the knight had passed through. Not
surprisingly, there were no signs. Tawl would be keeping a low profile wherever
he was; he wouldn't want to risk being picked up by the authorities. Tawl would
be somewhere near-he wouldn't want to be too far away from Lady Melliandrabut
he would be somewhere discreet. Might be a barn, or a tumbled-down cottage, or
even a chicken coop. With everyone leaving their homes for the city there were
a thousand places to hide.

Thinking about
Tawl out in the country on his own, Nabber couldn't help but be glad that he
hadn't yet told the knight about the meeting between Baralis and Tyren. Things
were difficult enough for Tawl at the moment without adding to his problems.
Oh, he had meant to tell Tawl about the meeting, but the night he returned to
the townhouse he had been too tired, and then the day after that it was the
Feast of Borc's First Miracle, and there was no way he could tell the knight
about Tyren's treachery on that most sacred of days. Tawl had spent most of the
day at the window, staring south in the direction of Valdis.

Nabber sighed.
He knew he would have to tell Tawl the truth at some point, but the longer it
went on the more difficult it became.

Well, one thing
was sure, he wasn't going to mention the meeting to Tawl when he found him.
Delivering Bevlin's letter was the thing that counted now, giving Tawl reason
to return to his quest.

That settled,
Nabber felt a lot better. Now all he had to do was figure out where Tawl could
possibly be. Putting his hand on his chin, Nabber concentrated as hard as he
could. Swift, who was always tracking down someone for the purpose of revenge,
retribution, or murder, had once said, "A rat might leave a sinking ship,
but it will always make its home amongst the wreckage. Men are no
different-given a choice, they'll always pick the familiar over the unknown.
" So, supposing what Swift said was true--and up till this point Nabber
had absolutely no reason to doubt the man's wisdom-then that meant Tawl would
go somewhere he'd already been. Somewhere not far away.

Nabber was now
gripping his chin so tightly, the blood had stopped flowing to his lips. This
thinking lark was a lot harder than it looked.

Then, suddenly,
like a gift from the gods, the answer came to him. The duke's hunting lodge! Of
course, why hadn't it occurred to him sooner? Tawl would go there: he knew the
place, he'd first met Melli there, it wasn't far from the city, and now with
the duke's death and the war and everything, it would probably be deserted.

Nabber was so
excited with his brainwave that he actually jumped in the air and clicked his
heels. A second later he had composed himself again: excitement was one thing
that it didn't do to overindulge in.

Having assumed
his former nonchalance, Nabber began to walk northward. He knew the lodge was
somewhere northwest of the city, about six hours ride by horseback, but that
was all. The rest he would have to find out as he went along. Nabber shrugged
to himself. That sort of thing was never a problem for him. And who knew? If he
was lucky, he just might hitch a ride along the way.

The day was
drawing to a close. Clouds with their backs to the sun were black in the
darkening sky. Already a breeze worthy of the night was blowing down from the
mountains. It was cold at the base of the mighty peaks, cold enough for a fire
and a winter cloak. Cold enough to chill Tawl to the bone.

He sat on grass
that had not been clipped for at least a month and gained shelter from the wind
behind a wall belonging to a building that had been unoccupied for just as
long. He was outside the duke's hunting lodge, biding his time in the foothills
of the Great Divide.