Master and Fool (42 page)

Melli had come to
know him over the past month. She knew what to say and what not to say. She
knew his moods and the signs of those moods.

She knew what he
wanted.

It was very early,
and he was dressed finely, so there would be no blood. He was wearing gloves,
silk not leather, so that meant there was a good chance he would touch her.

Folding her arms
across her belly, she inclined her head in greeting. "I am glad you chose
to come today."

The words stung
like salt in a wound. They hurt her baby, her pride, and her father's memory,
but she spoke them all the same. Yes, she knew what Kylock wanted. She also
knew her one chance of survival was to go along with him. She'd be dead within
an hour if she didn't.

Kylock was insane,
Melli was sure of it. And that insanity led him down paths that were black and
twisted. Somehow that night in the tower, when the lantern fell and the rushes
began to burn, she had become a beacon of light along the dark road of Kylock's
madness. He thought he needed her. He thought she could save him. She couldn't
yet guess what his ultimate plan for her was, but she knew that her pregnancy
was important to him. The only time he ever laid a hand upon her belly was to
feel the child beneath.

Kylock was not the
only person with a plan. Melli had one of her own. She was trapped here, that
much she knew. There was no chance of escape: the Highwall army would not be
coming to rescue her, though her father would surely try; she was guarded day
and night; the door was always firmly locked, and she was never allowed out of
her room. Her only hope was Tawl. When he and Jack were finished in the south,
he would come back and save her. Castle walls, siege armies, Kylock, and even
Baralis--nothing and no one would stop him.

All she had to do
was stay alive until he returned.

And since Kylock
was the one person who was stopping Baralis from executing her, she would
tolerate, encourage, and even respect him. Whatever it took, she would do.

Kylock came and
knelt beside her. He took her hand in his. Flipping it over to look at the
burnt palm, he said, "Has the pain enabled you to see more clearly?"

By now she knew
the question was a trap. Answer no, and he would inflict a separate pain on
her, on a different part of her body. Answer yes, and she would get more of the
same. Melli managed a grim smile. At least he gave her a choice.

She cursed her
hand for shaking and her heart for beating fast. Taking a calming breath, she
stretched her arm full out before her. There was a long distance between her
belly and her palms. A safe distance. "The pain clarified my thoughts,
sire," she said. "Last night I saw my sins laid out before me,
classified and labeled like specimens in ajar." It was amazing what nonsense
her mind came up with. Quickly, she glanced at Kylock.

He nodded once
then stood. Without looking, she knew what he would reach for: the candle by
the bedside. Mistress Greal allowed her the candle, but not the means to light
it. Kylock never came without a flint.

The flint was
struck. Melli closed her eyes. A child's terror came upon her. the fear of
burns and pain and monsters. Her stomach squeezed in upon itself. Her entire
body shook. Kylock drew near, candle glowing brightly in his hand. His eyes
were growing blank. Melli felt a burning sensation in her throat. She swallowed
deeply, and as she did so, she distilled all her thoughts into one,
concentrating on the only thing that mattered in the tortured madness that had
become her life.

Daydreams weren't
her only access to power. The baby inside was, too.

It was only a
short walk down to the harbor, but somehow they managed to lose Nabber along
the way.

As far as mornings
went this one was definitely a first, thought Jack. By his reckoning, it was
growing close to winter in the north, yet here in Rorn the breezes were barely
cool. The sky was blue and full of seagulls and the sun was large and golden.
The harbor was bustling. People, pigs, crates, and donkeys jostled for space on
the road. The air smelled as if it came straight from the sewers, and the
sights to be seen were so numerous that Jack had a hard time choosing where to
look.

If there was a
choice between a boat and a pretty girl there was never much contest, though.

All three of them
left the tavern less than quarter of an hour back, but now, as they approached
the wharf, only he and Tawl were casting shadows to the west.

As soon as Tawl
realized Nabber had gone, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "The
next time we see him, he'll need a cart for that sack of his." Jack took
this to mean that Nabber was off doing some pocketing, and by the sounds of
things that suited Tawl nicely.

The knight was
even more withdrawn than normal this morning. His face was tense, his words
were sparse, and his movements were pared down to the bone. Judging from the
dark circles beneath his eyes, the incident last night in the tavern had robbed
him of sleep. Jack would have liked to ask him how he felt, but he knew Tawl
wasn't one for talk. Jack couldn't help but admire Tawl's continuing faith in
Tyren--even as he knew it was an illusion waiting to be shattered. Believing in
something against all odds was the hardest thing of all.

Jack kicked at the
wooden boards of the wharf. He hadn't managed such a feat with Tarissa. The
first sign of wrongdoing and he had condemned, punished, and abandoned her. He
bitterly regretted that now. He had been too harsh, too judgmental, seeing only
black and white. Nothing gray.

Tawl tapped Jack
on the arm. "This way," he said. Jack was glad of the distraction;
thinking about Tarissa was dangerous. Regrets were dangerous. Everything in the
past needed to stay in the past at least until this journey was over. Too much
was at stake in the present.

Tawl led him down
a narrow wharf that trailed between two lines of boats. The planks were wet,
slippery with salt, barely suspended above the water. On either side sailors
were busy unloading their wares. They threw huge crates at each other, catching
them deftly, then toting them down the wharf as if it were the firmest,
flattest road.

"Well, call
me a randy walrus! If that isn't our old friend Tawl, then I'll eat nothing but
fish-ends for a week!" Jack looked up. A large boat was docked at the end
of a wharf. Perched on the highest of its two masts was a man with shocking red
hair and the grin of the devil himself.

Tawl waved his arm
high above his head. "You reek like a randy walrus, Carver. I can smell
you from here." Another red-haired man popped up on deck. "I've heard
he rollicks like one, too. Lots of honking and self-applause."

"Fyler!"
Tawl dashed ahead. He leapt across the gangplank and onto the ship. The second
red-haired man captured him in a huge bear hug.

The first beamed
at him from high atop the mast. "Finally got a hankering to see me after
all this time, eh, Tawl?" he shouted.

"Well, it was
a close call between your handsome face and Captain Quain's special
reserve."

Jack made his way
forward. He was amazed at the change in Tawl. It was hard to believe that this
roguish, bantering man was the same person he'd walked here with.

Tawl caught sight
of him and beckoned him onward. "Come on, Jack. Come and meet the finest
sailors ever to raise anchor in Rorn." Tawl was now surrounded by a group
of mostly red-haired men. Insults flew faster than the seagulls overhead, but
there was no mistaking the warmth of the sailors' welcome.

"Jack, "
cried the man from the mast. "That's a worse name than Tawl. I wouldn't
call the ship's cat Jack."

"You would
call it dinner, though, Carver," chipped in the one named Fyler. "I
saw you eyeing that cat up last week. You were fancying how it would look in a
pie."

Carver nodded his
head merrily. "It would be a damn sight more useful as a pie than a
rat-killer."

"If we ?et
old Tawl here bake the pie, we'd all end up dead--including the rats."

Everyone laughed.
There was much muttering about raw turnips and landlubbers not knowing how to
light a ship's stove. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spotted a man emerging
from below deck. Sporting red hair like the rest, he was older and more heavily
set.

"What's all
this hue and cry about?" he shouted.

The sailors all
stopped talking at once. They stepped away from Tawl, revealing him to the
older man.

"By the
tides! If it's not our old shipmate Tawl." The man moved forward, arms stretched
out. He clasped Tawl's hands. "My heart grows larger for seeing you
again."

Tawl's face was
hard to read. His knuckles were white as he clutched the older man's arms.
"It's been too long, Captain," he said.

The man shook his
head. "Nay, lad. There's no such thing as too long between friends. The
timing is always right."

Hearing the
genuine
affection
of the captain's words made Jack feel left out. He had
never experienced the welcome of an old friend. He always moved forward, never
back. Slowly, he began to ease away from the crowd of sailors. His movement was
spotted by Carver up in the mast, who shouted at the top of his voice:

"Eh, Captain.
Tawl's brought another green-face along with him. Name 'o Jack, I'm sorry to
say."

The captain turned
in the direction that Carver indicated. Jack stopped in his tracks. The man's
sharp gray eyes focused upon him.

"Captain
Quain," said Tawl, "this is my good friend Jack."

Jack watched as
the captain, a large man who looked as healthy as a dog, brought his hand to
his chest and fell backward onto the deck.

"Don't know
what came over me," said Captain Quain, bringing the glass of rum to his
lips. He swallowed its contents in one. "Aah. That's better." He
slammed the glass down on the banded wooden table. "I've sailed the high
seas for close to half a century now, and I've never had such a turn in my
life."

Jack noticed the
captain's eyes avoided him.

They were
belowdecks in a small, brightly lit cabin. Fyler had just left. Even though the
captain had insisted on walking down the stairs, "with nothing but my sea
legs beneath me," Fyler had stayed by his side until he was safely in his
chair.

"So,
Captain," said Tawl, "have you just got in from Marls?"

Jack glanced at
Tawl. It seemed an abrupt change of subject following so soon after the
captain's turn. The knight shot him a quick hard look, and Jack suddenly
understood what he was doing. Captain Quain was a proud man, and proud men
don't like to show weakness. Tawl, by not dwelling on the incident abovedeck,
was helping the captain regain his pride.

"Aye. First
light. I've a shipload of Isro silk aboard. Worth a fortune, it is." Quain
took the bottle of brandy and refilled all three glasses. As he leant over to
fill Jack's glass, his gaze was firmly down.

"Is silk your
normal cargo, Captain?" asked Jack, determined to make the man look at
him.

The captain downed
his second glass before he looked Jack's way. When his eyes finally came up, he
actually smiled. "Silk, spices, siege powders-anything I can get my hands
on."

There was a
discernible expression of relief on the captain's face. It was as if he'd
jumped into water he thought would be cold, only to find it warm instead. Still
looking at Jack, he continued: "Business is booming at the moment, lad,
what with the war and all. Those who are fighting need everything they can get
their hands on, those who are
considering
fighting are busy stocking up,
and everyone else is so damn nervous they're hoarding just for the sake of
it."

"So you
wouldn't consider taking
The Fishy Few
on a charter?" said Tawl.

Captain Quain
stood up. His large presence took up most of the cabin, and his booming voice
filled what little was left. "I don't need the cash, lad. I'll be honest
with you there. Right now Rom to Marls and back is about as profitable a run as
it's ever going to be. I could sail blindfold and still make a living."
The captain turned his back on them, pausing to look at a wide, banded shelf
lined with books. After a moment he said, "But there is one small problem,
though."

"What's that,
Captain?" asked Jack.

Quain turned to
face him. "The straits, lad. This time of year the sea between Rorn and
Marls is as thick as slowpouring custard. There's no wind no waves, no
swell--nothing for a man to get his teeth into. Why,
The Fishy Few
practically
sails herself." The captain shook his head sadly. "Right
disheartening, it is."

Jack didn't need
Tawl's pointed look to catch on this time. "How about the sea to the east,
Captain?" he said. "What's that like this time of year?"

"I'll not mince
words with you, lad. The eastern run's a bitch at the moment."

"How about
the run to Larn?" said Tawl.

The captain didn't
blink an eye. "I thought that's what we were talking about, Tawl." He
smiled. His gray eyes sparkled like the sea itself. "Larn is the charter
you're after, isn't it?"

Jack was beginning
to like the captain. He liked his loud gruff voice, the coziness of his cabin,
and the mischievous glint in his eye. Quain had known what they wanted from the
start, probably from the very moment he set eyes on Tawl. Jack drank his second
glass of rum. Brandy was lamp fuel compared to this golden brew.

Tawl leant over
the table. "We need to get to Larn as soon as possible."

The captain rubbed
his jowls. He looked at Jack and then back at Tawl. "A pressing matter, I
take it?"

"The future
of the north depends on it," said Tawl. Jack thought for a moment, then
added, "And the life of a beautiful woman." Tawl sent him a puzzled
look, but Jack knew he was right to say it. Captain Quain didn't seem the sort
of man to be swayed by thoughts of saving the north. "A beautiful woman,
eh?"