by J. V. Jones
"Were their names Melli and Jack?" Another thrust of the haft. The woman stifled her coughs this time. Traff was quickly depleting what little store of patience he'd been blessed with. "Look here, bitch, you answer my questions or I'll cut off both your hands and set fire to your precious pig sty." To illustrate his willingness to perform the former of these two threats, Traff drew the blade against her wrist. Dark blood welled to the surface in a thin line. She bled well for an old one.
"Now then, let's move along." He was the indulgent parent again. "What I need to know is where they were headed." Traff eased the point of the blade into the woman's open wound and absently drew back the skin.
"They headed east." The old woman sighed as she spoke. A single tear glistened forth in the darkness.
"Good, but not good enough." Traff scraped his blade against the intricate bunching of bones in the woman's wrist. "Where in the east?"
"Bresketh."
"No such place, old woman." One quick flick of the knife and the tendon connecting one bone to another was severed.
The woman cried out. "They told me Bresketh."
Traff got the distinct impression the woman was telling the truth. He tried a different tactic. "They might have told you Bresketh, but where do you think they were headed?"
No reply. "Answer me, old woman, or your pigs will be crackling before the night is over."
"Bren. I think they were heading to Bren."
Traff smiled. "One last question. Did the boy Jack ever lay a finger on the girl?"
"I don't know what you mean."
Traff was pleased to note that the old woman now sounded afraid. "Let me explain, then," he said. "Melli is my betrothed, and it would make me very angry if she was as much as touched gby another man." Traff continued working his knife into the open wound on the old woman's wrist. "Very angry, indeed."
"He never laid a finger on her. I swear."
"Good." Traff brought the knife to the woman's throat and slit her windpipe.
He wiped his hands and knife clean on her nightgown and then stood up. He was sorely tempted to put a flame to the sty, but he'd promised her "friend" that he could have the pigs, and he was a man of his word. When it suited him.
Now all that remained was to find a candle and then ransack the place. The old crow was bound to have a stash of gold somewhere. After a good night's rest and a hearty bacon breakfast, he would begin the journey east. Melli was his betrothed, and he would track her down wherever she was.
SIX
They were making their way toward the pass. The path began to narrow and steepen as it wound its way up into the mountains. To either side lay huge banks of snow; virgin white, they gleamed with silent menace. The air, which was already ice-cold, had begun to thin out, and Maybor's damaged lungs had to strain for every precious load of oxygen.
Damn Baralis! He was responsible for this. Before the incident on Winter's Eve, he'd had the staying power of a man half his age. His lungs had been the mightiest of bellows, and now, thanks to Baralis and his foul poisons, they were as full of holes as a cheese-maker's cloth.
At least the wind was at rest. For the first time in this cursed journey the air was still, bestowing an unlooked-for blessing upon his weary bones.
If all went well and the pass was met by midafternoon, they would be in Bren in three days time. Maybor was impatient to gain the city. He was tired of traveling, sick of looking at snow and the back end of horses and, most importantly, he was anxious to be among civilization again. Bren promised all the delights of a modem city: fine food and strong ale, cheap women, and skilled tailors. He would find a tailor first. It was high time he had some decent robes made. His lungs had not been the only casualty of Winter's Eve: his wardrobe had to be destroyed. Now he had barely enough clothes to impress a tavern wench. Baralis had a lot to.answer for.
Maybor turned his horse, a treacherous move on so narrow a path, and headed back along the length of the column. It was time he and Baralis sorted out a few things. Confronting the man here, along the cliffs and drops of the Great Divide, would give him the advantage. There was no greater horseman than he; no man could guide and control a horse as well. Baralis possessed no such skill. If Maybor judged right, the king's chancellor would be feeling just a little nervous at the moment, a little preoccupied with having to ride his horse along the hazardous snow-covered trail.
What better time to test the man's verbal acuity? And if Baralis' horse happened to lose its footing in the heat of debate, and plunge itself and its rider down into the snowy abyss of the mountain, that would merely be a regrettable accident.
The path was only wide enough to accommodate two riders abreast. Even so, Baralis chose to ride alone, or perhaps no one was willing to ride at his flank. Maybor had noted the way all the soldiers gave the king's chancellor a wide berth; they were afraid of him, though they would never admit it. Maybor could understand their fear; he more than anyone else knew just how dangerous Baralis could be.
Moving down along the column caused considerable inconvenience to the riders as they were forced to make way for the man and his horse. Maybor eventually pulled alongside Baralis.
"So, Maybor, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Baralis was as calm and aloof as ever.
Maybor had to admire the way the man could speak in such low tones and yet have all his words clearly understood. "I think you know what brings me here," he replied. "There are still some matters that need to be resolved between us."
"Matters to be resolved, indeed! Since when did you become a statesman, Maybor? Last I heard, your talents ran to women and murder. I didn't realize you were also an aspiring politician."
"Taunt me not, Baralis. As you have just pointed out, one of my talents is murder."
"Is that a threat, Maybor?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "Because if it is, then it's a naive one. You may have a little talent as far as murder is concerned, but you are merely a skilled amateur when compared to me." A little of the sting was robbed from the man's words as he was forced to rein his horse tightly to guide the creature around a sharp turn in the path.
"Not so great with a horse, though?" Maybor could not resist the jibe. He rounded the curve with the grace of Borc himself. One quick look to the left confirmed that the snow bank had given way to a sheer drop. To the right, the snow still rose like a mighty hillside. Maybor brought his horse closer to Baralis' mount, forcing the man to ride nearer the edge.
"Enough of this quibbling, Maybor. Cut to the bone. What did you come here to say?"
"I came here to tell you that I will be the superior envoy in Bren. I am king's envoy."
"I didn't know you could speak with the dead, Maybor."
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you were appointed King Lesketh's envoy. Lesketh, as we both know, is now cold in his grave, and unless you have developed a way to converse with his spirit, you have no rights in Bren."
Baralis' mocking tone raised a knot of fury in Maybor's gut. How he hated the arrogance of the man! He edged his mount more to the left. The two horses were so close their bellies were almost touching. Baralis was forced to pull on his reins to slow his mount.
"What's the matter, Baralis? Surely you aren't afraid of a little drop?"
"Don't play games with me, Maybor. You wouldn't want to lose another horse."
Maybor met the cold challenge of Baralis' eyes. There was an unflinching insolence in their gray depths. Maybor sat back in his saddle. He couldn't really believe what the man had said. He was claiming responsibility for killing his beloved stallion. And while he'd been riding it, no less! No, it couldn't be true.
Suddenly a cold wind blasted Maybor's face. A terrifying rumbling came in its wake. The mountainside was moving. A whole bank of snow was shifting.
"Avalanche!" someone cried.
The air was filled with the crashing of snow. Maybor rode forward in panic. The snow slid down in one mighty sheet, smashing into the path.
The noise was deafening.
There was chaos along the column. Men rode in fear for their lives. One man rode himself right off the cliffside. Chunks of snow and ice shot through the air like crossbolts.
Finally the snow came to rest, leaving a deadly silence as its obituary. White powder floated down on the party like a pall.
The column had congregated around the bend in the path. No one could see the damage done by the avalanche. They were short both men and supplies. The avalanche had caught the last of the column. Maybor looked around, suddenly hopeful. Baralis was still among the living. He cursed himself; he should have used the distraction to push the king's chancellor from the cliff!
No one dared move. Maybor's eyes were racing over the remaining supplies. Not one of the barrels had his mark upon it. Damn it! He'd lost three score casks of Nestor Gold. It was to have been his personal gift to the duke of Bren.
"My cider!" he exclaimed loudly. Maybe the men could dig it out.
"Crope!" The name was uttered with quiet anguish. The voice belonged to Baralis.
Maybor spun around. Baralis was moving toward the bend in the path, oblivious to the rest of the party. Maybor did a quick scan of the men. The huge lumbering idiot was nowhere to be seen.
"Lord Baralis!" shouted the captain. "You can't go back there, it won't be safe. Wait an hour or two and give the snow time to settle before we dig the men out."
"They will be long dead by then," murmured Baralis. "I will send some men to accompany you," said the captain, moving forward.
"I will go, too," cried Maybor. He wasn't about to let Baralis pick through all the supplies with no one watching. Baralis turned to face the party. His skin gleamed like polished marble. His gaze surveyed the men, meeting the eyes of each one in turn. "Ride on!" he commanded, his compelling voice carrying the authority of a king. "Ride on! I will deal with this danger alone!"
Such was the force of his voice that, after a short pause, the men began to turn their horses and make their way along the path. Maybor was powerless to stop them. The compulsion to obey was too strong. He watched as Baralis dismounted and made his way around the bend toward the avalanche site. Maybor was tempted to follow, but the threat of danger was too real and he didn't like the idea of his hide being permanently buried beneath a mountain of snow.
The party rode for a few minutes before the path widened sufficiently to make camp. The men were silent, their faces grave and tense. The captain ordered a head count.
Maybor did not doubt where the thoughts of all the men lay. Everyone was wondering what was happening at the avalanche site. A few minutes passed and then something strange happened: a warm wind rippled through the camp. Maybor told himself he'd imagined it, but the puzzled faces of others confirmed its presence. Again the air gusted wane and fast. There was a cracking, shifting noise. And then the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat.
Even as Maybor was disturbed at the smell, his mouth betrayed him by watering. He looked up, but the face of every man in the party was cast down, all intent on keeping their own counsel. It was as if to look at someone else might cause the strange goings-on to solidify into reality.
A length of time passed; Maybor had no way of gauging its measure. The air was cold once more. A chill breeze held the smell of well-done meat in its keep. The only noise was the sound of someone tapping a barrel-a man with enough good sense to realize that now was exactly the right time for a stiff drink.
Then, just as the ale began to flow, Maybor spotted Baralis approaching the campsite. He was walking, leading his horse by its reins. Lying over the mare's back was the body of a man. Size and width alone confirmed that it was Crope. The king's chancellor drew near. He was leaning heavily against the mare. The body on the horse shifted slightly; Crope was still alive.
The captain looked to Baralis.
He nodded, his face grim. "Go now," he said. "Rescue those who are left. Most are dead. I have done what I can." Maybor could read the questions on the captain's face, but something stronger than curiosity forced the man to hold his tongue: fear.
Baralis led his horse to a sheltered section of the path. He ordered a guard to help lay Crope's body on the ground. Maybor could clearly see the strain on the face of the king's chancellor. He was exhausted, his shoulders drooping, his hands shaking. Reaching inside his cloak, he pulled out -ga small glass vial. He swallowed the contents like a man dying of thirst. His weight was against the horse, and without its support Maybor suspected Baralis would collapse.
The captain began to organize a group of men to accompany him to the avalanche site. Maybor insisted on going along to inspect the damage. A few minutes later, they rode up to the place where the snow lay across the path. The smell of meat tantalized the palate. Maybor hurried forward. A portion of the snow had entirely melted away. Water pooled and then dripped from the path. Barrels and bodies were uncovered. The snow-melt formed a rough circle. At the center was the body of a horse and its rider. They were joined as one; their bodies scorched and blackened. Cooked to a crisp. Maybor heard the sound of more than one man vomiting.
Never had it been more difficult to deny the existence of sorcery. The very air was thick with it. Maybor rolled his phlegm and spat out the taste of meat and magecraft. "Come on now, men," he cried, purposefully sounding harsh. "There are still some alive. Now is not the time for shows of womanly weakness."
The soldiers began to clear away what remained of the snow and free the few men who were still moving. Past the melt-site, Maybor noticed a mound of snow that looked to have several barrels embedded in it. If he wasn't mistaken, his mark was upon them. "Before you deal with the dead," he called, "free my cider. Five gold pieces to the man who brings me the most barrels."
It was time for his midmorning snack. He had a fancy for some meat. Hot, sizzling fat surrounding delicate pink flesh: charred on the outside, tender within. Tavalisk had to stop himself from pulling the bell chord and summoning forth a huge joint of lamb.
He was watching his diet. His physician-Borc rot his soul-had lectured him on the dangers of overeating. None of the dreary recitation had any effect on the archbishop until the foul charlatan had mentioned the fact that overeating could lead to early death. Early death was one thing that Tavalisk most definitely wanted to avoid. What was the point of amassing great stashes of gold and land if one wasn't going to live to enjoy them?
Consequently he was trying his best to cut down on his eating. Instead of his usual three-course breakfast--eggs and bacon, followed by kippers and rolls, followed by cold pea soup--he now had only two courses. Needless to say, it was the pea soup that was bidden a fond farewell. Still, it was a sacrifice, and such uncharacteristic self-denial was hard for Tavalisk to bear. In fact, it made him rather angry.
The physician had prescribed music as a distraction. Now, the archbishop was as fond of music as the next man, and music might indeed tame savage beasts and so forth, but when it came to his stomach, a jaunty tune-no matter how well played just couldn't stop his overactive bile from burning away at his gut.
A knock was heard at the door. The wood rang of Gamil. "Enter," called Tavalisk, taking up his lyre. He strummed with studied indolence, his mind firmly on food.
"I wish Your Eminence joy of the day."
"There is little joy in this day, Gamil." The archbishop suddenly hated his aide; the man probably had three courses for his breakfast. "Quickly tell me what petty intelligences you have and then be off. I am already tiring of your presence."
"Well, Your Eminence, do you remember the man who spied on the knight for us?"
"Of course I do, Gamil. I am too young for my dotage just yet. You mean my spy, the one who waited outside Bevlin's but and saw the dead body the next morning?" The smell of cooking wafted gently through the open window. Tavalisk strummed faster on his lyre.
"The man has been seen keeping low company, Your Eminence."
"Just how low, Gamil?"
"He's been talking with friends of the Old Ma
n."
"Hmm. That low, eh?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. He was spotted in the whoring quarter emerging from one of the Old Man's lairs, accompanied by two cronies."
Tavalisk looked over to the bowl of fruit, the only food in the room. Peaches and plums mocked him with their pink plumpness. How he hated the cruelty of fruit! He fingered his lyre with increased vigor. "And did this man leave with a heavy purse?"
"I can't exactly say, Your Eminence. But straight after leaving the Old Man's lair, he made his way to the market district and bought himself two new robes."
"Wool or silk?"
"Silk, Your Eminence."
"Ah, then we have our answer. Our man has sold his information to the Old Man."
"Your Eminence is as wise as he is musical."
"So you've noticed my playing, then, Gamil?" Tavalisk broke into a new and very loud tune on his lyre.
"Your Eminence's playing leaves me at a loss for words."
"That is always the way with the great masters, Gamil. They move one to emotion, not to speeches." The archbishop finished off his tune with a suitably theatrical flourish. Even to his biased ears he could tell he hadn't quite hit all the right notes. Still, genius was measured by more than purely technical skills alone.
"So, Gamil," he said, laying down his lyre, "how well did the Old Man know Bevlin?"
"We know they corresponded at irregular intervals, Your Eminence. The last time we were aware of an exchange of letters was just after the knight returned from Larn."
"It seems to me, Gamil, that the Old Man won't be pleased that his good friend Bevlin was bumped off by someone he tried to help."
"Indeed, Your Eminence. The Old Man is known for his loyalty to his friends."
"What action do you think he might take?"
"Who can tell, Your Eminence?" said Gamil with a slight shrug.
