Master and Fool (6 page)

Even at such a
tender age, when he was still breaking his milk teeth, Tavalisk knew that
self-preservation and selfpromotion were the only things that counted. And the
pig, like his mother, had been sorely lacking in both.

Once the pig died,
they had no choice but to eat the tainted flesh. He and his mother were the
lowest amongst the low, the poorest amongst the poor. The only things they
owned were the clothes on their backs, a sackful of turnips, and two tin
spoons. They had no knife, so his mother was forced to drag the pig's carcass
to the meat market to be butchered. The butcher had taken everything but the
head in payment. Tavalisk could still remember the butcher now, rubbing pig
blood into his mustache to make it stiffen whilst
offering
to take less
pork if his mother agreed to bed him. Tavalisk would never forgive her for
turning the man down: it would have meant cutlets, not tongue.

Such
self-indulgent sacrifice had haunted his early childhood. His mother had taken
a position as a church cleaner for no other reason than she didn't like to live
off charity. Tavalisk quickly learned that priests were more miserly than
moneylenders. Generous gifts of food were kept under lock and key, the level of
blessed wine was marked against the bottle each night, and every holy sweetmeat
was counted after mass.

Oh, but the
ceremony was breathtaking, though. Priests were part magician, part actor, part
king. They performed miracles, granted forgiveness, and held congregations of
thousands in their thrall. They wielded power in this world and the next.
Tavalisk watched them from his hideout behind the choir stall. He saw the
glamour of it all: the gold and crimson tapestries, the snowy-white wax
candles, the jewel-encrusted reliquaries, and the silver-robed choirboys who
sang with angels' voices. It was a world of gaudy enchantments, and Tavalisk
vowed he would be part of it.

One year later his
mother died and he was thrown out on the street, penniless. His love for the
Church, quite understandably, diminished, and it was many years and half a
continent later before he felt its lure again. When the call finally came,
however, it didn't take Tavalisk long to realize that in the politically
sensitive hierarchy of the Church, there was more than one way to reach the
top.

Smiling gently,
the archbishop moved across his study to his desk, where a splendid meal
awaited him. His remembrances had acted like a fine white wine, honing an edge
to his appetite, wetting his tongue for more. But, as with wine, Tavalisk was
careful never to overindulge his memorieshe wasn't about to end up a quivering,
sentimental fool.

He brought the
duck thigh to his lips, and all thoughts of the past vanished as the oil-rich
flesh met his tongue. By the time he'd swallowed the meat his mind was firmly
in the present.

Gamil chose this
moment to knock upon the door. "Enter, Gamil. Enter," called
Tavalisk, rather pleased that his aide had arrived. There were matters he
needed to discuss.

"How is Your
Eminence this day?" asked Gamil entering the room.

"Never
better, Gamil. The duck is crispy, the wine is tart, and war draws nearer by
the hour."

"It is the
war that brings me here, Your Eminence."

"Aah, a
meeting of the minds." Tavalisk was genial. "How very fortuitous.
Tell me your news." He grabbed another thigh from the platter, dipped it
into the pepper dish, and set about tearing flesh from the bone.

"Well, Your
Eminence, nine Annis generals are set to meet with their Highwall equivalents
in three days time."

"And like a
romantic couple they hope to set a date, eh, Gamil?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence. They mean to discuss invasion plans."

"Hmm . . .
" Tavalisk toyed with the remains of the duck. "When do you think
they'll head for Bren?"

"It's hard to
say, Your Eminence. I think it's wise to assume they won't do anything until
the wedding has taken place. After all, their grievances are with Kylock, not
Bren."

"That will
take us into high summer, then. If they have any sense they will make their
move while the wedding bed is still warm."

"They may
move into position before then, Your Eminence. It could take the Wall nearly
two weeks to bring its foot soldiers and siege engines through the passes. If
they were to wait until the wedding, the delay might prove crucial."

Tavalisk dislodged
the wishbone on the duck. He always liked to pull both ends himself-that way he
was sure to receive all the luck. Oddly enough, this one snapped right down the
middle. "Can't be done, Gamil. You must send a fast messenger out to
represent the southern cities in the talks."

"But, Your
Eminence, Annis and Highwall won't listen to us."

"Of course
they will, Gamil. Who do you think is financing the damn war for them in the
first place? The northern cities might be strong and well-peopled, but they are
woefully short on cash. Why, Annis couldn't even finance a pleasant mountain
hike, let alone a full-blown siege." Tavalisk threw the offending pieces
of wishbone on the fire: something about their matching length and symmetry
sent shivers down his spine. "At the end of the day, Gamil, they will
listen to us because they have no choice."

"What message
would Your Eminence have me convey?"

"In no shape
or form should Annis or Highwall make a move against Bren-and that includes
taking up positionsuntil the marriage has been legally consummated."

"May I be
permitted to know Your Eminence's reasons for this?"

"Gamil, if I
were to throw you into a pond you would surely sink straight to the
bottom."

"Why, Your
Eminence?"

"Because
you're about as dense as a piece of lead!" Tavalisk snorted with good
humor. He always enjoyed pointing out how much cleverer he was than anyone
else. "Really, Gamil. Don't you see? If Annis and Highwall make any move
before the wedding is legally fixed, then there's a chance the whole thing
might fall through. Do you really think the good people of Bren are going to
cheer their favorite daughter down the aisle when an army, the size of which
has not been seen in over a century, is poised in the passes ready to
invade?" The archbishop finished his speech with a chorus of disappointed
tut-tutting.

"But surely
if an army were in place, and the wedding was canceled, then all our problems
would be solved?"

"The only
time our problems will be solved, Gamil, is when Tyren and the knighthood have
been sent crying back to Valdis, and when that demon Baralis lies cold in his
grave. Neither of which is likely to happen, I hasten to add, unless the whole
northern crisis comes firmly to a head." But ---2'

"Say that
word once more, Gamil, and I swear I will have you excommunicated on the
spot!" The archbishop brandished the bare drumstick like a weapon.
"Think, man.
Think.
Just suppose the wedding didn't go ahead, where
would that leave us?" Tavalisk didn't wait for an answer. "It would
leave us with Kylock still ruling a third of the north, and very liable, with
the knights' help, to conquer more. Baralis would still be behind it all,
scheming and maneuvering, and Tyren--Borc rot his greasy little soul-would
eventually be set to gain control of the Church in the north The only thing the
wedding changes is the time scale. The marriage of Catherine and Kylock will
only serve to accelerate events that have already been set in motion."

Gamil looked
suitably contrite. "I see Your Eminence's point."

"There was
never any question that you wouldn't," said the archbishop, flashing his
aide a distinctly cool glance. "Now. What I need you to do, Gamil, is
scribe a persuasive letter to the duke of Highwall. Tell him that the south
still stands beside him, and more money is on the way, and so forth. Then
inform him, in no uncertain terms, that we will completely withdraw our
resources if he moves so much as a single soldier eastward before the marriage
is in place."

"Very well,
Your Eminence. Is there anything more?"

"Just one
more thing, Gamil. Would you mind going down to the market district and buying
me a fish?"

"What sort of
fish, Your Eminence?"

"One in a
bowl, Gamil. Ever since my cat had that unfortunate accident with the tapestry,
I've been missing having a friendly creature around. I fancy a fish this
time."

"As you
wish." Gamil bowed and made his way toward the door. Just as he stepped
from the room, the archbishop called out:

"Oh, and
Gamil, I'm sure you will want to pay for it yourself. The Feast of Borc's First
Miracle is coming up, and I feel a fish would be an appropriate gift, don't
you?" Tavalisk smiled sweetly. "No cheap one, mind."

Tawl sat in the
sun-drenched windowseat and whittled at a piece of wood. The cushion, which had
rested invitingly atop the stone, lay discarded on the floor. Comfort was
something that he just couldn't get used to.

Every so often,
when a splinter of wood fell to the floor or his knife sliced into a knot, Tawl
would look up through the open window and search for any sign of Nabber in the
street below. The boy had been gone four days now and Tawl was worried sick
about him. Oh, he knew why the boy had gone missing-he was keeping a low
profile after what had happened at the Brimming Bucket the other afternoonbut
bad deeds done with dubious intentions were Nabber's trademark, and Tawl could
neither curse him or condemn him. He'd done much worse himself.

Maybor had
returned to the hideout in early evening the day before last. The man was a
little shaken and confused and had finally admitted that he had a meeting with
Baralis, and that Nabber had acted as go-between. Maybor was unrepentant. He
railed on most indignantly about his right, as an expectant grandfather, to
inform anyone he wished of Melli's delicate condition. When Tawl questioned him
about the details of the meeting, Maybor was unusually reticent; a blank look
came over his face, and he mumbled something to the effect that he wasn't about
to be questioned like a prisoner in the stocks. Tawl suspected the great lord
simply couldn't remember. Which could only mean one thing: sorcery. Tawl shook
his head, quickly glanced down to the street, and resumed his whittling. Maybor
had no idea how lucky he was. He had been a fly who thought that just because
the spider was out of its web, somehow it was rendered less deadly.

Two days back Tawl
had gone down to the Brimming Bucket to find out for himself what had gone
down. The patrons, besides being blind-drunk to the last man, were united in
their confusion about the events of the day before. A mysterious black-robed
figure had shot lightning onto the floor, said one man. Another disagreed with
him entirely, stating that the very ale on the floorboards had begun to sizzle
of its own accord. One thing they all seemed to know, however, was the fact
that Melliandra claimed to be with child by the duke.

The word was out
now. All the city knew that Melli was pregnant. Just this morning, Cravin had
visited the townhouse, bearing tales of people's reactions. "Most say
Melliandra is a brazen liar and a whore," he had said. "But given
time I should be able to whip up some support." Tawl felt like murdering
Maybor. With one single act of bravado, the man had endangered not only his own
life, but his daughter's, too. Now that her pregnancy was common knowledge,
Melli was more vulnerable than ever. At this very minute Baralis would be
having the city searched door to door. Posters offering rewards for details
about Melli's whereabouts could be found on every street corner. The net was
closing fast, and Maybor's little rendezvous had ensured that Baralis would
pull it in all the way.

"I've got the
pies, Tawl," came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Should I
take one to the lady?"

"Make sure
she gets the finest, Bodger," Tawl replied. "And test the milk before
she drinks any-it must be fresh and cool."

"Grift's
already done that, Tawl. Ain't nobody like him for telling when the milk has
turned. He has the nose of a dairyman and the hands of a milkmaid."

Groaning, Tawl
said, "Just take it to her, Bodger."

"It's as good
as done, Tawl. Grift always says that. . . " The words padded into the
distance along with the footsteps. The two chapel guards had turned up on the
doorstep the other day, looking decidedly sheepish and reeling off Nabber's
secret entry phrase. Tawl had no choice-as Nabber was well aware-but to take
them in. They were a risk; they knew the address of the hideout. The only other
alternative would have been to kill them-and he hadn't felt like murder that
day. Despite everything Tawl couldn't help but smile. Those two guards were
quite a pair.

And Melli owed
them her life.

He only wished the
duke had a similar debt.

Tawl stabbed at
the windowframe with his knife. Why was he destined always to fail? Why did he
fail those he was sworn to protect? Again and again the knife came down. Why,
whenever he felt as if he was getting ahead, did something always happen to
pull him back? The knife hovered in the air an instant, then Tawl let it fall
to his lap. Now was not the time for self-reproach. Melli was here, and keeping
her safe was what counted. His oath as the duke's champion was to protect the
duke and his heirs. The duke might be dead, but his widow and his unborn child
were still served by that oath and Tawl was bound to guard them with his life.
The whole of Bren had heard him swear it.

A quick look out
the window-still no sign of Nabber. They needed to leave the city. Baralis was
tracking them, and Nabber and Maybor with their secret meetings and nighttime
forays were practically asking to be caught. Of course, they both thought they
were as clever as could be. But Baralis was cleverer by far. It would only be a
matter of time before they were caught. Unless they got clean away. Sighing
heavily, Tawl took up his piece of wood and began to whittle once more. His
hands seemed intent on making something, but they hadn't yet informed his brain
what it was.