A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "Lead, of course. Heavy as a mountain, soft as a good cheese. Reach in and grab me a chunk. A fair-sized one, mind. We don't want it getting stuck in anybody's throat."

  Jack handed Rovas a piece of the gray metal, and the man wasted no time inserting it into the middle of the kidney. He carefully closed the cut, molding it back to its original appearance, and then gave it to Jack to feel. "Not a bad job, if I do say so myself."

  "This could kill a man," said Jack, testing its weight in the palm of his hand.

  "So could going without meat all winter." Rovas shrugged. "A man's got to make a living, and the chances are the metal will be found before the kidney reaches the pot." He caught Jack's disapproving look. "It's the way of the world, boy. If I didn't do it, someone else would. Halcus has been through some hard times since the war with the kingdoms started, and things look set to get worse. It won't be long before Bren is pushing us from the other side. If someone like me comes along and brings supplies to people who wouldn't normally get them, then it's only fair I take a decent profit for my troubles."

  "What do you mean about Bren pushing from the other side?" Jack wasn't about to challenge Rovas on his way of doing business. The man would never admit he was doing anything wrong.

  "Haven't you heard? Your country is joining with Bren, and if you ask me, it means trouble for more than just us here in Halcus. Annis, Highwall, even Ness-everyone's nervous. People are afraid that Bren is using the Four Kingdoms to help them dominate the north." Rovas spat reflectively. "Just this morning I heard news that Highwall is busy training an army in readiness. That's one city that won't wait for an attack like a rabbit down a hole."

  This was the first Jack had heard about a war. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Events had moved swiftly since he left the castle. "Kylock is going to marry . . ." Jack struggled to remember the name of the duke's daughter, "Catherine of Bren?"

  Rovas nodded. "War's acoming."

  War. It might never have happened if Melli had married Kylock as she had been supposed to. She would never have been killed, either. Jack put the kidney on the platter and tried to wipe his hands free of the blood. The stain smeared and thinned, but would not come off. Looking down at his bloodied hands, Jack couldn't help feeling that he was somehow responsible for what was to come. It was foolishness, he told himself. He'd never influenced Melli in any way; she had already decided not to marry Kylock before they met.

  Feeling guilty, yet not understanding why, prompted Jack to attack Rovas. He wanted to share the blame. "You should be pleased if war breaks out," he said, his voice rising in anger. "More fighting will mean more profit."

  For one brief instant Jack thought Rovas would hit him. The man's body became tense, his hand moved abruptly from his side. He controlled himself, though. Jack could clearly see him working to regain his good humor. With an effort Rovas shrugged and said, "Skirmishes along the border are one thing, boy, a full-blown war is quite another. Yes, there's more money to be made, but there's more chance of being killed before you spend it!" By the time he'd finished the last sentence, Rovas was back to his old self. Jack was almost sorry; he wanted a fight.

  "Here," said Rovas, distracting Jack's thoughts by handing him the platter of kidneys. "Stuff these for me. I've had enough of war for one day. I'm off to get my supper." With that he left the hut, shutting the door behind him.

  The thought of war had stirred something within Jack. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Why did the news matter so much? And why did it make him want to pick a fight with a man who would surely have beaten him? For the first time since leaving the castle, Jack felt restless. The familiar yearning to take off and leave everything behind was upon him. The platter felt like a dead weight in his hands. The smell of the kidneys was unbearable. He shoved the platter away and opened the door.

  The chill night air cooled Jack's face. The familiar yearning, but also the familiar frustration. He had nowhere to go.

  Rovas' footsteps formed an arc in the snow. Jack's eye followed the curve to where it ended: the entrance to the cottage. The people inside were his only connection to the world: Rovas, Magra, Tarissa. They were not what they seemed. Magra and Tarissa had secrets to keep. The same thing that made the mother bitter had made the daughter strong. Then there was Rovas, who only minutes earlier had nearly slipped and shown the edge beneath the padding. They had the look of a family, but not the feel of one.

  Even the cottage had the look of home about it: candlelight slipping out from the shutters, smoke spiraling up from the roof, the polished door offering a welcome. It was no place for him to stay. Jack suddenly felt tired. He couldn't foresee a time when he'd ever have a proper home again.

  Traveling with Melli had made him forget how alone he was. As long as she was with him all his worries had been for her. Keeping Melli safe and warm and well fed was all that mattered. Now that she was gone, his thoughts turned inward once more.

  For many months now his destination had been Bren. There was no reason behind it other than it felt right to head east. Now more than ever, with the news of war still ringing in his ears, he felt the need to be there. But he wouldn't go. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't ready. He had no skills at fighting, and if he were going to a place of war, it would be better to be prepared. And then there was Melli. Jack couldn't bear the thought of going without trying to make amends; her death was too important to be casually forgotten. Leaving now would diminish her. Nearly ten years ago, when his mother died, he'd carried on as if nothing had happened, barely sparing a breath to moum her. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

  Jack closed the door and the expanse of the night retreated. He would stay and learn. Rovas was using him-the man obviously had his own reason to want the Halcus captain dead-so he would use Rovas. He would learn all the smuggler could teach.

  Reaching for his knife, Jack turned back to the kidneys. He suddenly felt sorry for the Halcus; leaded meat was the least of their problems.

  The stars were out in Bren. Bells, muffled by damp and darkness, tolled the hour of midnight. Oil lamps cast their light into the fray, gaining an ally in the snow, which reflected their magnified meager assault.

  The crowd was restless. They had been kept waiting too long. Blood was what they craved. They had come to see the golden-haired stranger fight. A man who looked like an angel yet fought like a devil. Rumors abounded: he was a nobleman who'd fallen from grace; he was a warrior from beyond the northern ranges; he was a knight on a quest. The blend of mystery, romance, and danger was a heady mix to the people of Bren. They turned out in unheard-of numbers to see the object of so much speculation.

  Nobles, taking tipples from silver flasks, rubbed shoulders with tradesmen swigging from tankards and peasants slurping from skins. There were even some women present, hoods pulled over their heads to hide their identities and thick cloaks pulled close to conceal their femininity.

  Nabber surveyed the crowd. Pickings were rich tonight. He was astute enough to know that the real cash lay not in the hands and pockets of the nobility, but in the pouches of the tradesmen. The nobles were notoriously tight of fist, whereas the merchants were eager to spend and came prepared. Although he'd made a promise to himself that he wouldn't do any prospecting, Nabber found the pull of easy cash hard to ignore. He pocketed almost without conscious thought, as a man might scratch an itch. A few silver coins here, a jeweled dagger there. The peasants he left alone, never forgetting Swift's words: "Only the lowest kind of scoundrel steals from the poor. "

  Still, he hadn't come here tonight for financial gain. He'd come to keep an eye on Tawl. The knight was keeping the people waiting. His opponent, a man as broad as he was tall, was making his impatience known. He was already greased and in the pit, and Tawl hadn't even shown up yet. At last there was a hush. The crowd parted and from their midst emerged Tawl. He made his way to the foot of the pit and ripped off his tunic. Gasps of awe escaped from those nearby as his muscled but scarred torso was revealed. Nabber felt such pain at s
eeing his friend revealed in all his fallen magnificence before the crowd that he could hardly bear to look.

  "I've killed men before now for keeping me waiting." It was Tawl's opponent, shouting up from the pit in an attempt to bring the crowd's attention back to himself.

  The crowd was pleased by this warning and looked to Tawl for a suitably menacing reply. When it came, they had to strain to hear the words:

  "Then you kill too lightly, my friend."

  The crowd was silent. Tears came to Nabber's eyes. He alone knew the anguish behind Tawl's words-words that were more a reproach to himself than his opponent. Nabber, who had never aspired to anything more than a comfortable life, began to comprehend the tragedy of a man who had failed to live up to his own ideals.

  A cry went up, "Let the fight begin!" and Tawl jumped into the pit.

  The betting, which had been a lackluster affair before the knight's appearance, began to take on the look of a feeding frenzy. As the two fighters circled each other, odds were shouted and bets were laid. Nabber took a moment to size up Tawl's opponent. He was a large man, wide and well muscled, with no lard to slow him down. Someone nearby offered five golds on him to win. Nabber could not resist; in his eyes the fight had only one outcome. Tawl would prevail.

  "I'll take you up on that, kind sir," he said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  "Done!" replied the man. They exchanged markersnotched sticks-and Nabber moved away.

  In the pit, the fighters were locked together. Taut muscles, perfectly balanced, strained for supremacy. Tawl's knife was close to his foe's belly. Nabber felt a ripple of indignation on spotting the knife of his opponent. It was longer than a hand knife, a fist longer. The man was not playing fair.

  "Ten golds on the scarred stranger," he cried to no one in particular. It was his way of backing up Tawl.

  "Make it twenty and you're on." The voice of a noble man.

  "We have a deal." Another exchange of markers, this time with a polite bow, and then Nabber stepped back into the crowd.

  The fighters were well matched at first. Each man executing a seemingly effortless array of feints and thrusts. The fight gained momentum and an edge of anger honed the skills of both men. Tawl was forced to parry a blow with his forearm, and his opponent's blade cut through to bone. Blood welled slick and dark in the lamplight. The crowd cheered. Nabber, always the businessman, knew a good opportunity when he saw one: everyone thought that Tawl had lost his advantage.

  "Who'll give me two to one on the stranger?"

  Nabber was inundated with takers and collected markers like fallen leaves. The problem was that by the time he'd finished his dealings, the fight had taken a turn from bad to worse. Tawl's arm was drenched in blood and lay limp at his side. He was backed up against the wall of the pit, his opponent's knife at his throat. Tension was so high that most of the crowd had actually stopped betting. Nabber willed his knees not to give way under him.

  "I'll give you five to one on the stranger," hissed someone in his ear. To Nabber, the idea of betting at such a time seemed appalling. He turned around and kicked the man hard in the shins.

  The subsequent need for a quick escape prevented Nabber from seeing what happened next. Suddenly the crowd went wild, stamping their feet and calling at the top of their voices. When Nabber managed to get close to the pit once more, he found the balance of power changed. Tawl had his opponent up against the wall of the pit. The man's knife lay on the ground. Tawl's knife was at his throat. The eyes of the knight were dangerously blank. The knife blade shook with tension as both men fought over its course. It hovered and wavered, close enough to flesh to draw blood, yet not near enough to slice muscle and tendon.

  Tawl's opponent gathered his strength and in one brilliant move pushed the knife away from his throat. The knight was forced to step back. The last thing the dark-haired man saw was Tawl stepping forward. Freed from the stalemate, Tawl pivoted to the side and fell upon his opponent's flank. He sliced the man open from belly to groin.

  The crowd was shocked. It had happened too fast. Where was the skill? The finesse? A moment passed while they decided how to respond. Nabber was disturbed at the sheer violence of Tawl's attack. His opponent was lying in his own blood, his entrails seeping from the wound. Even now, Nabber knew with all his heart that he couldn't abandon his friend. It wasn't Tawl who he'd just watched fight: it was someone else. He gathered his breath deep within his lungs and let out a cry:

  "To the victor!"

  The crowd followed his lead. The stalemate had been broken and Bren was happy once again to cheer the winning side. The noise was dizzying and the sparkle of coinage was dazzling. The dead man was soon covered with silver. Nabber took his markers from his tunic and began to look around for his debtors. He spotted the nobleman in the distance, trying to slink away unnoticed. Nabber spat with disgust. He should have known better than to bet with anyone of the blood. They were notoriously absent losers.

  He had just decided to cut his losses when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nabber didn't look round at first; it certainly wouldn't be anyone eager to pay their bets.

  For a brief second his heart thrilled, perhaps it was Tawl. He spun around. The man wasn't Tawl, but he was familiar all the same,

  "Well met, my friend," said the stranger. "'Twas a good fight, eh?" It was the man he'd pocketed his first day in Bren: the huge chest, the wide arms, the shiny black hair.

  Nabber suppressed his natural desire to run. There was no way the man could prove it was him. Then he remembered the portrait. It was tucked under his belt and would give him away as surely as falling leaves gave away autumn. He remained outwardly calm despite the turmoil within. "Not a bad fight. Though I've seen better in Rorn."

  "Is that where your friend is from?" The stranger's eyes glanced toward the pit. "Rom?"

  Nabber was immediately on the defensive. "What makes you think he's a friend of mine?"

  "I watched you working the crowd for him. Quite a job-reviving betting and then saving his skin at the end." The stranger smiled, showing white teeth. "Nice trick thathaving a boy in the crowd."

  "I ain't nobody's boy," said Nabber.

  "I saw you follow him the other night," said the man. "After he beat that young lance from out of town,"

  Nabber decided to change tactics. "What's it to you?" The man shrugged, his whole body becoming taut for the barest instant. Nabber suddenly realized what he was dealing with: a contender.

  "Perhaps I should introduce myself," he said. "I'm Blayze, the duke's champion."

  Impressed, but determined not to show it, Nabber said,

  "My, my, shouldn't you be busy defending the duke, then, rather than hanging around on street corners?"

  The man ignored the jibe-Nabber had to give him credit for that. "I like to keep an eye on the competition, and your golden-haired friend is the only decent fighter I've seen in a long while."

  "Just as well for you, really."

  Another shrug. "Makes no difference to me, boy, I beat all comers." He was confident without being arrogant, and well spoken-for a fighter.

  "Need a decent fight, do you," said Nabber, "to help raise your favor?"

  The man who he now knew to be called Blayze, pulled away a little. "I'm not about to waste my time talking with a boy whose tongue is quicker than his wits. Now, unless you're willing to admit you know the lance who just won in the pit, I'm off." He turned and began to walk away.

  "Tawl," shouted Nabber. "His name is Tawl and he's from the Lowlands." Friendship was one thing, but on a night like this when the coinage shone brighter than any oil lamp, it was difficult to believe that anything mattered more than money and its making. Besides, what was the harm of telling Blayze a name?

  The man carried on walking. "Arrange a meet for me. Two days from now at sundown by the three golden fountains." He never turned around to discover if his words had been heard, he merely slipped into the crowd. A few seconds later, Nabber spotted him making his way down the stree
t. He was accompanied by a slight figure who was both cloaked and hooded.

  Nabber took all his markers and snapped them. No chance of finding who they belonged to now. No chance of finding Tawl, either. The knight had left the pit. Even if he were to find Tawl, he would never agree to come to a meeting set up by him. It was probably for the best. Blayze had the look of a man who wasn't used to losing; a full compliment of front teeth and a straight nose were rare sights in fighters. And the body! Nabher whistled in appreciation. More muscles than a shipful of sailors. Tawl wouldn't stand a chance.

  Or would he? Nabber began to make his way toward Brotheling Street

  . Tawl had a unique talent that owed more to rage than to muscle, so perhaps the outcome was anything but certain. One thing that was certain, though, was that there was loot to be made here. Plenty of it. The duke's champion fighting the latest sensation in Bren, Nabber could almost hear the sound of money spinning about the pit. This was just the sort of earner that Swift spent his days dreaming of-and it was his for the taking!

  As Nabber walked up the street, he felt an unfamiliar sensation. Like bellyache, only higher and deeper, it formed a tight band around his chest. He tried ignoring the feeling at first and set his thoughts upon solving the problem of how he was going to get Tawl to agree to a meet with Blayze. However, the pain wouldn't go away. It niggled and chided and allowed him no peace. Despite his attempts to pass it off as an unusually high case of indigestion, Nabber knew in his heart it was guilt.

  Melli drifted through the hazy clouds between waking and sleeping. Some tiny still-lucid part of her brain hinted that sleep was best. Some large still-active part of her belly swore that it was.

  Cheap Halcus wine and exotic southern liqueurs didn't mix. She'd paid the price for their incompatibility all day. Rolling along a bumpy road in a wagon that was obviously built before Borc's first coming hadn't helped much, either. She was sick and feeling sorry for herself.

  Her brain defied her stomach and set a course for full waking. Without opening her eyes, she was aware that it was late. The light filtering through the tissue of her eyelids was low and golden; candlelight, and the cries of owls and wolves had found their way into her dreams for some time now. The smell of incense and almonds was as strong as ever, and she realized, rather belatedly, the wagon was no longer moving.