Master and Fool Read Free

didn't wait
for Grift's reply. He dashed straight ahead, shouting loudly, "Nabber!
Nabber! Over here!"
    Nabber looked
around. He was on an important mission and was under direct orders not to
loiter, but loitering was in his soul and the sound of his own voice was music
to his ears. At once he recognized the distinctly mismatched forms of Bodger
and Grift. They looked wet, miserable, down on their luck and, most alarmingly
to Nabber, sober as a pair of bailiffs. What was the world coming to?
    Bodger ran toward
him, a huge grin spreading across his face. "How are you, my friend? It's
good to see you. Me and Grift were worried sick about you after the
night--"
    "The night we
parted ways," interrupted Grift, flashing Bodger a cautionary glance.
    Nabber gently
disengaged himself from Bodger's spiderlike grip. He brushed down his tunic and
smoothed back his hair. "Always a pleasure, gentlemen," he said with
a small bow.
    "Are you
still coping with your loss?" asked Bodger in a peculiar meaningful
whisper.
    "Loss? What
loss was that?"
    "Your dearly
departed mother, of course. You used to spend all your time in the chapel
praying for her soul." Nabber's whole demeanor changed: his shoulders
dropped, his back arched, his lips extended to a pout. "It still grieves
me every day, Bodger," he murmured tragically. The sight of Bodger and
Grift's sympathetic nodding made Nabber feel bad. Swift would not have approved
of him taking his mother's name in vain. Pockets were notoriously sentimental
when it came to their mothers. Why, Swift himself had loved his own mother so
much that he had named one of his most famous moves after her: the Diddley
Delve. A thoroughly sneaky and ingenious move that could deprive any man of
valuables he'd concealed about his vitals. Apparently nothing had been safe
from Ma Diddley. Nabber hadn't yet aspired to the dizzy heights of the Diddley
Delve, and in fact wasn't quite sure he ever wanted to.
    Feeling a little
guilty about stringing the two guards along, and feeling a lot guilty about
them being out on the streets with no prospects--after all, he was partly
responsible for it--prompted Nabber to make them an offer. "If you are
looking for shelter, some hot food, and a chance to protect a certain highborn
lady, then I know just the place you can go. " As he spoke, Nabber shook
his head slowly. No doubt about it, there'd be trouble with Tawl for this.
Guilt would be the death of him.
    "What
place?" asked Grift, suddenly interested. It was telling that he never
asked what lady.
    Nabber crooked his
finger and drew both guards close. In his lowest and most furtive whisper,
Nabber gave out the address of the hideaway. "Knock three times on the
door, and when someone comes tell them you're there to deliver the snails. Say
Nabber sent you." There, it was done now. Tawl would have to take the two
guards in-either that, or murder them. Moving quickly along from that particular
unsettling thought, Nabber said, "Anyway, I must be going. I have a
message to deliver to the palace."
    He was just about
to step away when Grift caught at his arm. "You're a fool if you go to the
palace, Nabber," he said. "If you're caught by Baralis, Borc alone
can save you."
    Nabber freed
himself from the guard's grip, smoothed down the fabric of his sleeve, and
tipped a bow. "Thanks for the advice, Grift. I'll bear it in mind. See you
later." With that he was off, losing himself in the crowd as only a pocket
could. He didn't look back. It was getting late and Maybor would be anxiously
awaiting his return. Nabber shrugged to himself. He could put it down to the
rain: a street full of watery sewage on the move could slow a man down quite
considerably.
    It really was
quite a pity he was on a mission, as by far the best time for pocketing was
during rain showers. People jostling into each other, cloaks held above their
heads, eyes down-it was perfect. A man could round up a lot of coinage in the
rain. Maybe he could put in a little pocketin'