Master and Fool (9 page)

Jack felt his face
grow hot. "What prophecy?"

Eckles looked at
him carefully. "Well, lad, you're a baker, that's for sure, and as you've
already stumbled across our best-kept secret, I can't see that telling you
another will make any difference either way." He had brought in a skin of
ale from the banquet hall and filled Jack's cup for a second time. Jack was hardly
aware that he'd drunk the first cup. "The Baking Master's Guild has been
meeting in Annis since before it was even a city. When it was just a scholars'
retreat we were kneading dough for the philosophers, putting bread to rise for
the wise men." Eckles leant forward. "Contrary to popular belief,
Annis was built on bread, not brainpower."

Jack managed a
smile: bakers were nothing if not proud.

"Anyway,"
continued Eckles, "one day, over a century ago now, a baker baked a loaf
for a man who called himself a prophet. Only when the loaf was delivered did
the baker find out that the man had no money to pay for it. The prophet was
close to starvation and begged the baker to give him the loaf. Now, the baker
was a good man and took pity on the prophet. Of course he didn't give him the
freshly baked loaf-after all, he was a tradesman, not a fool-but he did give
the man the leftover loaves from the day before. The man thanked him for his
trouble, and from that day on the baker always sent his stale bread to the prophet."

"The
following winter the prophet caught the tubesthinkers just don't have the
constitution of us bakers-and on his deathbed he called the baker to him. The
baker was master of the guild by now, but he came to the man's summons as if he
were just an apprentice. The prophet took the baker's hand and said, "I
have asked you here to repay my debt. As you know, I have no money, but what I
do have is insight, and so that is how I will pay you." Well, the prophet
then told the baker his prophecy, and it has been a guild secret ever since.
Passed from generation to generation, from father to son." Eckles finished
his tale with a dramatic flourish worthy of an actor.

Whilst the story
was being told, Jack felt the palms of his hands growing damp with sweat. He
felt guilty, but wasn't sure why. "And what does this prophecy
concern?" he asked.

"A baker, of
course."

Jack nodded He
wasn't surprised. "Which baker is this?"

"One who will
come from the west and bring an end to the war."

"What
war?"

Eckles looked him
straight in the eye. "The one that's building between the north and the
south.
This one."
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I can't
tell you the whole verse, lad, not until the guild gives the nod, but the last
two lines are:"

"If time
turns twice, the truth will bring
Peace into the hands of a baker, not a king. "

Jack looked away.
Time turning. The memory of eight score of loaves flashed quickly through his
brain. Aware that Eckles was still looking at him, Jack worked hard to compose
his features: he didn't want to give anything away.

Abruptly he stood
up. Prophecies, lies, secrets: he'd had enough for one day. The subject needed
changing it was time to talk of truths, not shadowy foretellings. "Tell me
what's happening in Bren," he said. "How is the duke and his new
wife?"

A curious
expression came over Eckles' face. "Boy, where have you been these past
nine weeks?"

Jack was
immediately on his guard. "I live in a cabin in the mountains. My master
and I are cut off from the world He only sends me into the city when we need
some supplies. The last time I came was two months back." Jack turned his
face to the fire. All the time he'd spent despising deception and here he was,
turning out to be quite a liar himself.

"Then you
won't know the duke is dead." There was a slight edge to Eckles' voice.
"And his new wife has gone into hiding to escape Catherine's wrath."

"What would
Melliandra have to fear from Catherine?" Jack no longer cared what Eckles
thought: all that mattered was learning the truth.

"Half the city
says she let the duke's murderer into the bedchamber. Catherine wants her
executed."

"Is she still
in Bren?"

"Most people
believe so. If she left the city, Lord Baralis would know it."

Baralis? Jack
could hear the blood pumping through his veins. "Why would Baralis know
it?"

"Lord Baralis
is all but running the city now." The emphasis Eckles placed on the word
lord was a question in itself. "Just today I heard a rumor that the Lady
Melliandra is with child--apparently her father is stirring up trouble in the
city, swearing that the unborn babe is the duke's issue. Whether it's true or
not, I can't tell you, but you can be sure that Lord Baralis won't like it one
little bit."

Jack's throat
tightened. Melli was in danger. "Is she alone?"

"Her father
and the duke's champion are said to be with her. There are those who say the
champion is her lover." Eckles shrugged. "None of it will matter
before long." 'why.

"Because
within a matter of weeks Bren will be razed to the ground."

The room seemed to
have shrunk as they spoke. Jack paced its length. He had to go to Melli-now. He
had to go to Bren.

Eckles took a swig
from his ale skin. "You seem mighty agitated, lad, for someone who lives
quietly in the mountains." He gave Jack a shrewd look.

Jack forced
himself to take a deep breath. His throat fought him all the way, but he
swallowed hard and willed his muscles to relax. He couldn't afford to give
Eckles reason to be suspicious. The last thing he felt like was a drink, but he
took one all the same, purposely taking a long, slow draught to give himself
time to think.

Going to Bren
tonight just wasn't practical; it was too late, too dark and his shoes and
clothes were too flimsy for the mountains. Besides, he needed to see Stillfox.
Jack could guess why the herbalist had withheld this information, but he wanted
to hear it from the man's mouth. They had things to talk about, and another lie
wrapped in good intent was just the first of them.

"Look,"
he said to Eckles, "I need somewhere to stay tonight. I'll be gone before
sunup."

"Sunup comes
late to Annis," the baker said. It was his way of saying that Jack could
stay. "You can sleep here by the fire. We'll not trouble the others with
the details; they'll all be going home soon anyway. Just be gone before the
maid comes to spread fresh rushes in the morning."

Nabber decided to
take the long way back to Cravin's townhouse. After his encounter with Skaythe,
he didn't trust anyone or anything. If a drunk as much as stumbled in his
direction, a prostitute gave him an earful, or an alley cat gave him the eye,
then he'd backtrack, sidestep, or change his path. Sometimes he did all three.
A man couldn't be too careful when returning to his lair. Once, in the space of
a single night, Swift had circled Rom three times, rowed from the north harbor
to the south harbor in a crab boat, changed horses and traveling companions
twice, and donned no less than four separate disguises just to throw his
pursuers off the scent. Nabber sighed wistfully. Such extraordinary evasive
maneuvers were the stuff of legends in the pocketing world.

Inspired by the
thought of Swift braving salt water, strange streets, and a dress-the third of
Swift's four disguises had apparently been as an old milkmaid, complete with
wooden buckets, shoulder yoke, and a limp-Nabber decided to make one final
detour before heading back toward the townhouse.

Spying a street
lined with taverns, brothels, and pie shops, Nabber set his sights in that
direction. The fact that plenty of candlelight spilled from the doorways and
shutters of various establishments only put him more at ease. He'd lost his
appetite for the dark.

As he walked
along, Nabber spit in his palm and smoothed down his hair. He wanted to look
presentable when he finally saw Tawl. After a few moments of smoothing,
probing, and measuring, he was quite sure he'd located a bald spot the size of
a five-copper bit just above his left ear. Alarmed, for Swift always said that
once a man lost his hair it never grew back, Nabber paused in midstep to search
through his sack. After a little discreet fumbling, accompanied by much
under-his-breath cursing of Skaythe, his fingers finally closed around the
wooden handle of his preening mirror.

Having assured
himself that no one was looking, Nabber sidled up to the nearest building, and
standing on tiptoe to catch the light escaping through the open shutter, he
brought the mirror up to his face. After much twisting and rotating, he
eventually managed to find a position where the light fell directly onto the
offending bald spot.

Strange, it didn't
look nearly as big and bald as it felt. In fact, it looked rather pathetic.

Disappointed as
much as he was relieved, Nabber went to move away from the shutter. Just as he
settled back onto the heels of his feet, something bright flashed in the
mirror. For a quarter of a second the interior of the building was fully
visible in the reflection.

Nabber caught his
breath.

A figure sat in
the room with his back to the window. Dark haired and robed in black, the
oyster pale flesh of his neck was all that was visible of the man. Yet Nabber
recognized him all the same. Four days ago he had followed that neck across
half a city: it was Baralis.

Nabber's first
instinct was to run. His second instinct was to creep ever so quietly away-he'd
had quite enough excitement for one night, what with Skaythe and his
metalspiked stick and everything. His third instinct, however, was to stay put
and see if he could discover just what old Insect Features was up to,
conducting a meeting in an unmarked building bordered by a pastry shop and a
vintner's, in the south side of the city after dark. Nabber seriously doubted
that the man had developed a late-night fancy for a glass of wine and a pork
pie.

Nabber wavered
between his second and third instincts. He really did want to go home; right
now there was nothing in the world he fancied more than a hot toddy, a spot of
supper, and a freshly stuffed pallet for the night. Yet what if Baralis was up
to something devious in there, something that Tawl and the Lady Melliandra
needed to know about? Perhaps if he discovered something useful, Tawl might be
so pleased with him that he'd totally forget about the fiasco at the Brimming
Bucket. Nabber smiled, mind made up. He might even get a warm welcome to go
with the hot toddy.

Crouching down to
hide himself from view of the window, Nabber slipped his preening mirror back
in his sack, his thoughts racing ahead of his hands.. This was obviously a
secret meeting of some sort: why else would Baralis choose to meet someone away
from the safety of the palace? Which meant that Baralis had probably either
come here on his own, or brought only his rat-loving servant along for
protection. Nabber slipped into the shadows. There would be no armed guards to
give him chase.

As the building was
in the middle of a row of six, there was no alleyway running down the side, so
Nabber had to walk to the end of the row before he could find a way to approach
the rear. A narrow, walled walkway provided access for deliveries, and Nabber
had to keep count of the number of gateways he passed to ensure he picked the
right building. They all looked the same from the back.

The vintner was
obviously having some sort of latenight party, as the sounds of laughing,
coughing, and singing escaped from between the partially closed shutters.
Nabber was glad of the noise when he entered the middle building's yard, as
piles of scrap metal and rotting wood made it difficult for him to move
quietly.

A sudden noise
caused Nabber to freeze in midstep. A dark form close to the building's rear
wall moved. Nabber's heart turned to a dead weight in his chest. He didn't dare
move, didn't dare breathe. The sound came again, this time followed by a second
noise. A low, nickering animal noise. It was a
horse!
Annoyed at himself
for being scared of an old nag, Nabber risked moving in closer. Tethered to a
holding timber jutting from the rear wall, the horse was on a very short lead.
Looking at it, Nabber was forced to admit that it was an extraordinary animal:
tall, with a finely muscled flank and neck, and a slim but gleaming belly. Not
an old nag by anyone's counting, but rather a Far South purebred.

Nabber could see
now why it was on such a short lead: it's owner wouldn't want to risk the
animal injuring itself on a chunk of scrap metal, or a nail-encrusted plank.
The horse whinnied in Nabber's direction. Nabber shook his head softly. There
was no way he was going to go near it. All horses were dangerous as far as he
was concerned-especially purebreds.

The horse whinnied
again, louder this time. "Ssh," hissed Nabber under his breath.

The horse wasn't
about to be quieted It stamped its forehooves on the ground and pulled against
its reins. Panicking, Nabber darted forward and grabbed the horse's bridle.
Unsure of what to say to calm a horse, he threatened it with all manner of dire
punishments in his softest, most encouraging voice. It seemed to work. The
horse settled down, moving closer to the wall and letting the reins fall slack.

Nabber heaved a
sigh of relief. As he took his hands from the horse's noseband, he noticed
something black on his palm. Bringing his hand closer to his face, Nabber
inspected the mark, first rubbing, then smelling it. It was soot.

A small thrill
passed down Nabber's spine. Quickly, he glanced over at the horse's noseband.
Even in the dull light spilling from the shutters, he could clearly see a
stripe of yellow on the leather. Two minutes earlier it had been entirely
black. Someone had gone to great trouble to conceal the true colors of the
bridle. Nabber leant forward and ran his hands over the leather. A second
yellow stripe emerged from beneath the soot.