by J. V. Jones
“He and Rovas were friends once,” she said. “Or rather, business associates. A smuggler needs contacts in the military, you know, to stop awkward searches and confiscations. To turn a blind eye. Anyway, the captain started to get greedy, asking for a share of the profits rather than a flat fee. Well, Rovas refused to pay it, and now he can’t transport his goods to Helch without the captain ordering them to be seized.”
“So he wants me to rid him of his problem.”
“Your problem, too.”
Jack didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. “It looks like I came along at just the right time.”
“More for me than for Rovas.” Tarissa took a few steps forward and turned her face to the wind. “I was supposed to kill the captain that day.”
The night turned sharply into something else. Darker and deeper and bounded like a cave, Jack felt it change for the worst. “Why you?”
Tarissa drew her shawl close. She looked down. “Jack, don’t make me answer that.”
His hand was up. He grabbed her shoulders and swung her round to face him. “Why you? Rovas was up on the rise that day. He could have shot the captain himself.”
Still looking down, Tarissa shook her head. “I’m a better shot with a longbow.”
“You’re lying.”
Tarissa pulled free of him. Turning her back, she cried, “All right! All right! If you must know, he threatened to throw Mother and me out of the house unless I did it for him.”
Stunned, all Jack could do was look at the back of Tarissa’s head. How could a man do such a thing? How could Rovas threaten someone he loved? Tarissa’s shoulders were shaking. She was crying. Jack wanted to put his arms around her, to protect her, but just as he moved forward, a thought glimmered darkly into existence. Before he knew what he was doing, he spoke it out loud, his lips forming the words less than a hand’s length from her ear:
“Rovas wanted you to murder the captain to bind you more closely to him. Once you did it, he would always have something to hold over you. You and Magra could never leave him for fear that he might tell someone what you did. The deed wasn’t as important as the power it gave him.”
Tarissa had stopped shaking. Slowly she turned around. “You shouldn’t have said that, Jack. It’s not true. It’s just not true.” Her voice was high, almost hysterical. Tears rolled down her cheek. “Never say that again. Never.” With that she ran away, shawl flapping behind her, head down to avoid the wind.
Jack watched her go. What he said had been true, and they both knew it.
Ten
One last drink might do it. Tawl took a swig from the skin: a golden brew and probably one he’d paid dearly for. It didn’t matter. What did matter was forgetting. It was the only thing he lived for.
Yet no matter how much he drank, how ruthlessly he fought, how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget. Anna and Sara, the baby, and then Bevlin—each one had placed their trust in him, and he’d betrayed them all. He’d failed as a man, as a brother, and as a knight. Everything that he held dear was gone and the shell that remained felt as cold and as deep as a grave. Except it wasn’t a grave, for there at least was peace. Or so the wisemen said.
How many days, weeks, months had passed since Bevlin’s death was impossible to say. Everything blurred into one, and the only things that changed were the faces of the men he fought and the quality of the ale.
It was having less and less effect, though. Three skins he’d drunk tonight, but his arm was steady as an oak, his steps sure as a bailiff’s and his mind as clear and as sharp as a sliver of glass.
His body had the look of a traitor. It mocked him with its vigor; muscles were hard, skin was taut, and tendons were poised to spring. None of it was right. He was half a man and it was fitting that he look like one.
Two images were at the center of his being, seared into his retina as surely as his circles were seared into flesh. Whenever he looked at anyone or anything he saw them first. Everything filtered through them: the small, burnt plot of ground that marked the place where the cottage had stood, and the dead man covered in blood. No amount of fighting or ale could make them go away. There’d been a saying at Valdis: A man pays in the next life for his sins, a knight pays in both. Tawl hadn’t understood it at the time. He did now.
“Come on, Tawl. We’ll be late if you don’t hurry.” Corsella grabbed his arm and steered him down the street. She made the mistake of thinking he was drunk. He wished he was.
“I think there’s time for him to finish the skin, my precious,” said Madame Thornypurse. The woman was up to something. She’d taken his knife away and was now encouraging him to drink his fill.
They fell under the shadow of the palace and moved toward the center of a large, flagged square. Three fountains, gurgling and embellished with gold, one man dark and well built. He stepped forward and bowed.
“Good evening, ladies.” And to Tawl, “Well met, friend.”
Tawl spoke over the simpering of the women. “I’m no friend of yours.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself. I’m Blayze, duke’s champion.” The man waited, obviously used to impressing people with his title.
Tawl ignored him and turned to Madame Thornypurse. “So this is what your scheme is. Arranging a fight with me as the centerpiece. Haven’t you earned enough from me already?”
“My dear Tawl, I only have your interests at heart.” Madame Thornypurse’s hand fluttered like a wounded butterfly to her throat.
Blayze raised a beautifully arched brow. “I hardly blame your reluctance, Tawl. It is never easy to contemplate defeat.”
Madame Thornypurse and her daughter sighed in agreement.
“Trying to goad me, eh?” said Tawl. “Cheap tactics from a man who wears such expensive clothes.”
Blayze was not insulted. He studied the cuff on his embroidered tunic. “Victory bought them for me. You, too, could win such rewards.” He shrugged. “Of course, you might find yourself in a shroud.”
“Popularity flagging, is it? Need a decent victory over an opponent worthy of you?” Tawl began to walk away. “Well, you can forget about me, I’m not prepared to be anyone’s path to glory.”
“That really doesn’t surprise me, my friend. From what I’ve heard, glory isn’t your strong suit.”
Tawl spun around. “What have you heard?”
“I’ve heard you’re a Knight of Valdis, and that fighting in the pits is the least of your sins.”
Tawl was at his throat in an instant. He knew that was what the man wanted, but it made no difference. His failure was too new a wound to be salted. His hands grabbed oiled and scented skin. The muscles beneath were iron. The two women squawked and panicked like scared hens. Blayze’s neck was his. He squeezed the two weakest points under the jaw, pressing them together. He felt a quick jab at his side. A blade, smoothly drawn.
“Step away,” said the champion. His rasping words were backed up by a second, more threatening jab.
From the corner of his eye, Tawl saw two guards approaching, spears in hand. Probably alerted by the women’s screams. Tawl let Blayze go, hating his cowardice as he did so. Even now, when there was nothing to live for, his first instinct was to save himself. For what?
Blayze waved the guards away. “Now is neither the time nor place for this,” he said to Tawl. “One week from now, I’ll be waiting for you in the pit just south of the palace. There we can finish what we started.” He made a show of wiping the blood from his knife. “Unless, of course, you place no value on honor.”
“There is little honor in drawing a blade on an unarmed man.” Tawl suddenly felt tired. What did it matter? “I’ll be there. Though you might find the odds too even for your liking.”
“A good fight, fairly fought, that’s all I’m after.”
Tawl didn’t care what the man was saying anymore, he wanted to be away. He needed a drink. Night had fallen, and it was the worst sort: still and cloudless. The stars were a thousand pointing fingers. He walked away
, desperate to be alone. Nothing mattered except escaping to a place where he could forget. No longer could lovemaking divert his thoughts. Drinking and fighting were all that was left. So he would do what he could, and perhaps, Borc willing, his next fight might be his last.
• • •
Maybor spat out a mouthful of meat. It was tough and tasteless, probably peacock. He hated such fancy stuff. Where was the venison, the pork, the beef? In front of the duke, no doubt. There was one man who wouldn’t be eating overstuffed, overfluffed, overdone fowl. The duke ate his meat red and bloody.
Maybor surveyed the huge banqueting table. Laden with candles and platters, tankards and bones, around it sat the highest nobility of Bren. The men were a drab and short-haired lot. Not a beard or a bright color between them. They obviously took their lead from the duke, who favored the unadorned style of the military. Even now the man had his sword at the table. And what a splendid and posturing weapon it was. Maybor thought he might get himself one; it drew the eye more certainly than the most elaborately embroidered silk.
At least the women didn’t follow His Grace’s example. Beautifully molded dresses traced curves as tempting as anything the kingdoms had to offer. Their voices were a little harsh, but their waists were full, and their hips sported more meat than a brace of dead peacocks. More than one of these tempting creatures had looked his way, and who could blame them? Amongst such dull men, he stood out like a king. Bren might be famous for its tailors, but its weavers and dyemakers must work in the dark.
“Was the breast not to your liking?” It was Catherine herself. In a room full of beautiful women, she found no equal. Maybor had harbored every intention of scorning her, but here, sitting by her side, fingers resting upon the same trencher, he found himself dazzled. The portrait painter had done her an injustice: she was magnificent. Her skin glowed, her hair shone, her lips were formed by angels. An untouched princess poised to become a woman.
For an instant Maybor was bemused by her comment, but quickly realized she was referring to the fowl. “I have little taste for peacock, my lady.”
“Then we must see that you are meated.” She clapped her hands and a servant hovered close. “Venison for the lord.”
A huge platter of meat was laid before Maybor. He made a great show of picking out the fattest joint and handing it to Catherine.
“Sir, you do me honor.”
“Lady, it is honor enough to be in your presence.” Maybor felt inordinately pleased with himself: he’d said and done just the right thing. Baralis had heard him, too. The king’s chancellor gave him a look filled with malice. He was sitting next to the duke’s aged mother, a woman as deaf and ugly as she was old and wrinkled.
Baralis was going to die. There was no question about it. The how and the when were all that needed deciding. He could allow no one to do what he did this morning and get away with it. No one. All his tricks and fancies wouldn’t save him. The king’s chancellor would rest long in the grave.
Oh, but the pain had been worth it! He’d made Baralis look a fool and a liar. If anything, Bren was turning out to be his city; the duke was courting his favor, and Catherine was attending to his every need like a dutiful daughter. Even the man to his left, the great and wealthy Lord Cravin, was treating him with the respect he deserved.
Catherine was talking with the man on her right, so Maybor took the chance of broaching the subject that was on everyone’s mind, but on no one’s lips. “Tell me, Lord Cravin, how is Bren taking the news of Kylock’s sovereignty?”
Lord Cravin cleaned the sauce from his fingers with meticulous care. Although he was looking down, Maybor got the uncanny feeling that he was checking every man in the room to see where their attentions lay, listening for the sound of bated breath. The lord reached over for a flagon of wine and spoke, his words an expertly fired arrow with Maybor as the only target, “Not bad enough.”
The possibility of intrigue opened like a rare and seductive bloom. Maybor was heady with its scent. Careful, must be careful, he warned himself. Quick to learn, he mimicked Lord Cravin’s nonchalance by plucking the feathers from what remained of the peacock. “Things will go as planned, then?”
“Unless someone is bold enough to change their course.” Cravin handed Maybor a platter of spiced eels.
“We must meet some time to discuss our—” Maybor noticed Catherine was no longer talking to the man at her side.
“Discontent,” said Cravin, stepping in, “with the eels?”
“Yes,” Maybor said. “They are not as slippery as I like them.”
“Then let me wet them a little for you,” said Catherine. She took up a silver tureen and poured cameline sauce into the dish. “I trust they’ll slip down your throat more easily now, Lord Maybor.”
Maybor studied the girl and could find nothing but innocent concern on her face. His attentions were suddenly distracted by Baralis standing up, goblet in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” he said, the subtle power in his voice silencing the room in an instant. “May I propose a toast to the fairest and most gracious maiden in the whole of the Northern Territories: Catherine of Bren.”
The crowd had no choice but to second him. They raised their glasses and shouted “Aye!”
Baralis hadn’t finished. “A second toast to the greatest of leaders and the most inspired of generals: the duke of Bren.” Once again the crowd backed him.
He was leading them along as surely as a shepherd guides his sheep. Maybor guessed what was coming next. The man was a master of manipulation.
“And a final toast,” said Baralis. “To a union more glorious, more noble, and more magnificent than any joining in the history of the Known Lands: the marriage of Kylock, sovereign of the Four Kingdoms, and Catherine of Bren.”
The crowd rose to meet him. Shouting and banging, their enthusiasm was so contagious that even Maybor found his foot tapping along. Baralis had done a fine job; he had taken a court that was reluctant and whipped them into a frenzy of self-congratulation. Who, looking around this room now, could honestly say that Bren was against the marriage?
Those who looked closely at the duke’s face, perhaps. His hand was a little stiff as he raised his glass, his smile a tad reluctant. The man did not enjoy watching his court being manipulated. Maybor rubbed his stubbled chin. There were possibilities here. Chinks that could be made into breaches. The betrothal would stick—Baralis had made sure of that tonight—but the marriage was a long way off. Much might happen over the coming months. For one thing, Kylock could win the war with the Halcus, that would certainly make everyone nervous. The duke might change his mind, for another. And then there was the latest development: intrigue.
Maybor glanced toward Lord Cravin. The man was cheering along with all the gusto of a well-polished actor. A wise move, and one he could learn by. It was best to seem in favor of the match for the time being. The most effective strike was an unexpected one. Maybor took up his cup and toasted the betrothal. If the wine was a little bitter on his tongue, he let no one know it.
• • •
Catherine of Bren unpinned the pearl circlet from her hair and slipped the pearl earrings from her lobes. She looked at herself in the mirror and her lips curved to half a smile. It had been an interesting evening.
Sitting between two fools—one boring, one vain.
The king’s envoy had failed to impress her. He’d passed the time spitting, plucking feathers, and flirting, but the king’s chancellor . . . Catherine’s smile spread . . . now there was a man to be reckoned with. Until yesterday it was Lord Baralis, not Lord Maybor, who she was due to sit next to at the banquet. Apparently her father was punishing him for something. Could Lord Baralis help it that the old and doddering King Lesketh had finally popped off?
Yes, an interesting evening. She’d played the part of dumb female well: her guests’ cups were never empty, their vanities constantly flattered, and their meats well moistened with sauce. Catherine began to untie the
lacings on her dress. Lord Cravin had so discreetly let his displeasure be known, hoping to find an ally in Lord Maybor. It wasn’t important; there was nothing they could do to halt the match. Just seeing how cleverly Lord Baralis had handled the court made her confident of that.
She would be a queen not of one but two countries.
A timid knock was heard upon her door. “Go away, Stasia, I will undress myself. Do not disturb me till morning.”
Catherine hooked her hands beneath the neckline of her dress and pulled the heavily brocaded silk away from her body. Next came the linen shift beneath. As she drew it over her head, the material caught against the belt. The shift ripped in two. “Damn!” she muttered, cursing the iron monstrosity that rested upon her hips: her maiden’s belt.
Molded from two ribbons of iron, dull and heavy, yet snake-close to her body, it was the bane of her existence. Made to her exact and most intimate measurements, it combined the skills of a craftsman with the guile of an armorer. Like the very palace itself, she was alluring on the outside, but impregnable within. The belt rubbed against her belly and buttocks constantly, raising welts and chafe-sores. The first year of wearing it she’d nearly died of an infection, so it had been sent back to the forge to be made anew. What emerged was something more delicate, yet just as monstrous.
Five years she’d endured it. Five years of not being able to bathe or relieve herself properly. Five years of sweat, rust, and humiliation.
No one wore them anymore—if indeed anyone ever had—they were a thing of the past, read about in stories, giggled about whilst embroidering. Still, here she was, the highest-ranking female in the greatest court in the Known Lands, trussed up as surely as a felon in the stocks. Her father was keen on keeping up the traditions of his ancestors, traditions that warned of the weak nature and insatiable sexual appetites of the women of Bren. She would never forgive him for it.
Though it did have its advantages. As long as she wore it she was above suspicion. Catherine gently caressed the metal. Ancient runes of warding were etched upon the curve. She had learned long ago that they had no power to guard. She began to concentrate upon the point where lock and solder met, gently warming the join. She could taste the metal on her tongue. It excited her. Nausea threatened, but she ignored it. The tiny pinpoint of metal shifted and grew pliable with the heat. Catherine drew a little more. All of the belt was now warm to the touch. The heat between her legs excited her further.
