Master and Fool (48 page)

Nabber tried his
best to look contrite. They walked across a lofty gallery, down a short flight
of stairs, and into a marble-lined corridor. A set of double doors marked the
end. Nabber, who had taken the trouble to change into his best for this
occasion, smoothed down his tunic and tried hard to swallow the lump in his
throat.

Gamil reached out
to knock on the door. Nabber stopped him.

"One question
before we go in, my friend," he said. Old Gamil didn't look at all happy
at this. "What?"

"The treasure
in the palace. All the urns and statues and things. They are real, aren't
they?"

"Of course
they are. The tributes have been collected over centuries. They are priceless.
The holy treasures of Rorn are second in value only to those of Silbur."

"Hmm. Very
interesting. You can knock now."

Gamil sent him a
withering look and knocked, very softly, upon the door.

"Enter!"
came a muffled cry.

They walked into a
glorious, golden chamber. Light poured in from arched stained-glass windows and
the rugs on the marble were at least two toes thick.

"Your
Eminence, this is the young man I talked to you about. I promised him but three
minutes of your time." Nabber stepped forward. Like everyone else in Rorn,
he knew the archbishop by sight--the man could never tam down a parade. He was
dressed in exquisite silks of yellow and cream and rustled like a wealthy
monarch when he moved. "Most unusual this, Gamil," he said.
"Caught me in the middle of my lemmings."

"I apologize,
Your Eminence. If you would prefer I'll-" The archbishop waved a heavily
jeweled hand. "No, no. I'll see the boy now." And then to Nabber.
"What's your name, boy? Nabber?"

"Nabber."

"Very nice.
You can go now, Gamil."

"But, Your
Eminence--"

"Go, Gamil.
I'm sure young Nibber here would like to talk to me, man to man." He
smiled benignly at Nabber. Gamil was gripping Nabber's shoulder very hard.
Under his breath he whispered, "One word about Larn and out comes your
tongue."

"'Nuff said,
Gamil," murmured Nabber between gritted teeth.

Gamil gave his
shoulder one final skin-piercing squeeze and reluctantly took his leave.

The archbishop
waved a beckoning hand. "Come over here, young Nibber. How do you feel
about lemmings?"

"Never heard
of them. And the name's Nabber."

"Good. Care
to try one?" The archbishop brandished something small and squirrel shaped
impaled upon a stick. "I have these brought in from beyond the Northern
Ranges, you know."

"I think I'll
have to decline. Tempting though they look, Your Eminence."

The archbishop
sighed "All the more for me, then." He took a dainty bite at the
squirrel-thing, then said, "Now, while I'm eating perhaps you'd like to
tell me how you managed to coerce my aide into setting up this meeting. For
this is the first time in my recollection that Gamil has ever brought me a boy
off the street." Up came the lemming to his lips. "Are you
blackmailing him, by any chance?"

The fat man was
not as stupid as he looked. Nabber revised his opinion of him. To buy himself
time to think about his reply, he turned his back on the archbishop and looked
around the room. All that glittered was most definitely not gold. Nabber
smiled, suddenly more confident. A change of plan was in order. "If I was
blackmailing, Gamil, Your Eminence, I couldn't possibly tell you the reason
why."

The archbishop now
had a silver goblet in his hand. "Boy, I could have any information I
wished out of you in an instant. My torturers are second to none. Now kindly
tell me what you know about Gamil."

"Can't do
that, Your Eminence. Once I've done a deal, my lips are firmly sealed."
Nabber had come to the palace with the idea of bluffing the archbishop into
giving him what he wanted. He knew about the archbishop's storehouse full of
loot, and he had planned to state that unless His Eminence agreed to lay off
the knight, the whole thing would be torched before nightfall. Nabber was even
going to invent an accomplice who was poised outside the storehouse, flame in
hand, ready to set it alight if he'd heard no news within the hour.

Nabber hadn't been
entirely happy with the plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with
on short notice. And, as Swift always said,
"when everything else
fails, an inspired bluff is your best resort."
Things looked different
now, though. There'd be less bluffing-inspired or otherwise-in what he was
currently concocting.

"Boy, you do
realize that I will have you tortured unless you speak?"

"Do you
realize that the one thing you look for in a blackmailer is the ability to keep
his mouth shut?" Nabber grinned. He took the liberty of coming forward and
running a hand over the treasures on the archbishop's desk: gilded boxes,
goblets, jeweled candlesticks, and incense holders. He selected a particularly
pretty gold statuette: Borc's sainted mother, if he wasn't mistaken. Holding it
up to the light, he said, "It's really not bad for a fake."

Four skewers worth
of lemmings clattered to the floor. A soft whisking noise escaped from the
archbishop's lips. His fingers strayed to the large ruby ring on his left hand.
Nabber knew rubies; this one was a little too bright, a little too brazen to be
real.

"I see that's
one, too," he said pointing to the ring. "Of course, no one would
spot it unless they knew what they were looking for. Take me, I would never
have guessed all these things were fake if I hadn't seen the originals for
myself."

The archbishop
looked a little lost for words, so Nabber decided to carry on. "You and I
both know where the holy treasures of Rorn are, and they ain't in this palace,
that's for sure. They're in a smart little house just off Mulberry Street.
Right nice place, it is. Looted to the rafters." Nabber knew what he was
saying was right. Three years ago he'd been in that house, checking out the
prospects for Swift. Of course, as soon as they'd learned that the archbishop
owned the place, they'd backed away from the job. But the memory formed by the
treasure was a lasting one, and the minute Nabber walked into the palace it all
came flooding back: the golden angels, the enamel boxes, the jeweled chests,
the countless paintings of Borc and his disciples. Old Tavalisk had ripped them
all off.

"Boy, you are
deranged. I'm going to ring for the guards." The archbishop reached for
the bell rope. "Torture me, kill me, and the word will still get
out." Nabber was beginning to feel more confident. He was back on his own
territory again: inspired bluffing. "You don't think I'd walk into the
lion's den without helpers in the field?" Down came the hand. "Are
there others who know of this foul lie?"

"Just me and
a good friend. But you needn't worry about that, Your Eminence. We're the two
discreetest people you're ever likely to meet."

"What do you
want?"

"First of
all, I want you to lay off the knight. When he gets back into Rorn, I want him
to get off the boat and leave the city in one piece."

"And?"

"I believe
you're holding a friend of the knight's. A lady, name o' Megan. I'd like her
released. Today. Right now. She can leave with me." Nabber didn't have the
vaguest idea who Megan was, but she was obviously important enough for the Old
Man to mention her. Besides, any friend of Tawl's was a friend of his.

During the
conversation, the archbishop had been slowly changing color, and now he was
rather an alarming shade of puce. He tugged on the bell rope. "Boy, let me
make this very clear to you. What you have accused me of is an outright he. Unfortunately
a great man like myself simply cannot allow his reputation to be sullied by
such slanderous lies. And that--and only that-is the reason why I'm agreeing to
your requests."

Nabber judged a
bow was in order. "Of course, Your Eminence."

The archbishop
poured himself a cup of wine. "Suffice to say, if I hear as much as a
whiff of this ugly rumor, I will not rest until you and the knight are so much
rotting flesh. Is that clear?"

Nabber shivered.
He couldn't help himself. The archbishop issued the threat in such an offhand
manner, that you just knew he was serious about it. Swift had been right not to
mess with him.

A knock came upon
the door and in walked Gamil. "Aah, Gamil. Your young friend here is ready
to leave. See to it that the prostitute Megan accompanies him."

"But--"

"Do as I say,
Gamil." The archbishop waved an almost fond farewell. "Remember what
I said, Nabber. Not one whiff."

"Come on,
Jack," said Tawl. "What are you stopping for?" A pale ribbon of
mist-filtered moonlight slanted across Jack's face. "Tawl, I can feel it.
I can feel the rock. . . " He shook his head. "It's throbbing, like a
heartbeat."

Tawl could hear
fear in Jack's voice. Fear and something else: wonder, perhaps. He reached up
and touched Jack lightly on the arm. "Let's go."

They had just
found the tunnel that led up through the cliff face. For over two hours they'd
circled around the shore looking for a place to climb up to the top. The cliffs
were too sheer, though, and slick with condensation from the mist.

Even before it
started to go dark, the mist began to roll in from the sea. Having grown up in
the marshes, Tawl was used to fog and mist, but he'd never seen anything like
this before in his life. There was no gradual buildup, no gentle clouding, no
delicate swirling and thickening. It came from the sea in a solid bank, as
dense and real as the waves it glided over. The mist came in with intent. It
didn't accompany the night, it
made
it.

Now, as they
climbed up a tunnel that cut through solid rock, the mist came after them. Tawl
wasn't given to idle fancies, but even in the dark he could tell there was no
mist ahead of them. It was only behind. He and Jack were leading the mist up
the cliff.

It was bitterly
cold in the tunnel. The rock underfoot was damp, greasy; rivulets of water
trickled down along the depressions, flaring out when the path ran smooth.
Every step had to be carefully placed. Overhead the rock coverage varied, one
minute dipping low to meet their heads, the next soaring high and shaping echoes,
and occasionally pulling back and allowing glimpses of the sky.

The darkness in
the tunnel had a quality all its own. At first Tawl couldn't work out what was
wrong, what made it different from other darkness, but as they struggled ever
upward, he began to see what it was. Most of the rock surfaces were either damp
or dripping, but instead of catching the occasional flash of light from the
much-absent moon, the water running down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the
tunnel
glowed.
There was a faint phosphorescence to it not nearly enough
to banish the darkness, but enough to alter its nature.

Tawl shivered. He
needed a drink. He was thirsty, hungry, and his body hurt in a hundred
different ways. Glancing back at Jack, Tawl saw a mirror of his own emotions:
fear, apprehension, a strong desire that the whole thing be over and done with.
One knife they had between them. One singlebladed knife.

They had been
walking uphill for some time now and Tawl felt sure the tunnel would end soon.
So far things looked good: they hadn't seen anyone, which could mean that the
priests didn't know they were here. It could also mean that they were waiting
in their temple like spiders in a web. There was just no way of knowing.
Thinking back, Tawl tried to remember if any of the hooded men he had seen were
armed. There were definitely no guards, that was certain, but were the priests
trained to defend the temple? Tawl shrugged. Trained or not, they would defend
it with their lives.

Suddenly a cold
breeze blasted against his face. The air was fresh, mist free. The path began
to lighten ahead. Tawl dropped to the floor. "Get down," he hissed at
Jack. The tunnel was about to end, and from here onward they had to take every
precaution they could.

On their bellies,
they pulled themselves forward, finding handholds in the rock. The mist was no
longer behind; it was on top of them, hovering overhead like smoke above a
fire. The sensation of wet rock beneath and clammy mist above was so unpleasant
that Tawl actually grinned. It reminded him of early mornings at his fishing
hole, lying still between the fog and dew while he waited for the fish to bite.
Strangely, the memory gave him strength-he'd never come home without a catch.

Abruptly the
tunnel ended. Tawl had grown so used to the dark that the moonlit night seemed
impossibly bright. It was dazzling. Tawl felt exposed, vulnerable, as if a
score of lanterns had been turned on him. The only mist up this high was the
white swirls escaping from the tunnel. Swinging to the left, Tawl saw the low
oblong form of the temple. His mouth went dry It was just the same as he
remembered it: oppressive, primitive, its very shape telling of power passed
down over time. Tawl had seen it in his dreams: it was the place that nearly
destroyed him.

Jack moved next to
him. "I feel like I've been here before," he whispered. His voice was
thin, strained.

Tawl could feel
the tension in his body. He wished he knew how to reply. Jack needed some
reassurance, but he had none to give. "The place is dark. That's a good
sign," was all he could think of to say.

Jack nodded, as if
he understood the intention behind the words. "What do we do now?"

The wind whipped
low over the ground, buffeting their bodies and sending ripples through the
flattened grass. It was warmer here than down below. Tawl looked up at the sky.
The moon was hanging to the west. "It's past midnight now. I say we go
in." He had planned on waiting longer, but ever since he'd learned that
Melli had been caught by Baralis, waiting had become intolerable to him.
Everything had to be done as soon as possible. The one thing that kept him
moving forward was the burning desire to get back. He had to return to Bren, to
Melli, and an hour longer than necessary was a lifetime too much.