A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  She heard the door open and then felt a flurry of cold air race in. Fiscel's voice said: "Alysha, I want a word alone." Melli kept her eyes closed and lay very still.

  "Lorra." It was Alysha's low and alluring voice. "Go outside for a while."

  "But it's cold and dark. I was nearly asleep-"

  "Go now," said Alysha, cutting the young girl's complaints short. "Or I will make you stay out the whole night."

  "You wouldn't dare."

  Alysha laughed. "You're no great prize, Lorra. Your flesh would fetch as much dead as alive."

  Melli tried hard not to shudder, but the coldness of the woman's words was too much. The sound of the door slamming was testament to their sting. Lorra had obviously decided not to take Alysha up on her threat.

  Fiscel spoke softly, "Is the new girl all right?"

  The rustle of silk suggested a shrug. "She will live. Her stomach reacted to the herbs in the nais, that's all."

  "Are you sure she is asleep?"

  "She hasn't stirred all day."

  "Good," said Fiscel. "We must talk about what you saw last night."

  Melli now realized what the dull pressure was in her abdomen: she badly needed to relieve herself. Having grasped this, she became desperate and slowly curled her body into a ball.

  The voices of both people had dropped even lower. Alysha was speaking. "She is trouble. It is bad luck to even travel with her."

  "What makes you so sure of this? How do I know that what you say isn't a drunken woman's fancy?"

  "You know me better than that, Fiscel," hissed Alysha. "Only last winter I saved your skin by warning you when the storm would hit. Ignore my warning this time at your own risk." The chink of glasses was followed by the pouring of liquid. The sound was torture to Melli's bladder.

  "What are you saying, then?"

  "I'm saying that we should sell her as soon as possible, lest we become victims of her fate."

  "But I had plans to take her across the drylands," said Fiscel. "One such as her would be worth a fortune in Hanatta."

  "Hanatta is months away. I say we get rid of her before the moon wanes."

  Why was she such a liability? Melli cast her mind back to the evening before. There was drinking, a little eating, more drinking and then-Melli's body stiffened under the light wool blanket then there was the testing. A wave of nausea rippled through her body. She swallowed hard to keep the bile from her mouth. That foul woman had done something to her, something dirty and shocking. Her eyes stung and she was forced to open them the barest fraction to let out the tears. In that one second, she glimpsed Fiscel and Alysha; they were distorted by the salt water and looked like monsters. Melli, who had long prided herself on her fearlessness, suddenly felt alone and afraid.

  Her knife, which for days now had been her main source of comfort, began to seem like a useless toy. Even now she could feel its metal-coolness against her side. Only Borc knew how she had managed to hold on to it after the dress-splitting of the night before. But it wasn't important anymore. These two people, who were calmly discussing her fate in much the same way as her father must have done while arranging her betrothal to Kylock, had the power of life or death over her. That sort of power could not be challenged by a knife.

  Apparently she did have another weapon, though. They were wary of her. Alysha must have discovered something during her testing and Melli doubted that it was the ghones.

  "We pass Highwall tomorrow. You know people there." It was Alysha again.

  "No," said Fiscel. "Too close to the initial transaction. Word could reach the good captain, and our guarantee of safe passage through Halcus might be withdrawn." There was a faint rustle as Fiscel adjusted his position. "If you're so set on being rid of her, then the best I can do is Bren. If the weather holds, we'll be there in less than a week."

  "The same contact as before?"

  "Yes. He'll pay a fair price, but our friend in Hanatta would pay us double."

  "If we ever reach Hanatta." Alysha's voice became harsh. "Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can't bend they steal."

  Melli was shocked. What was in her that was so dangerous? For some reason her thoughts turned to Jack. She remembered the day in the pig farmer's cottage when she'd been given a glimpse into the future. Jack's future. If Alysha had uncovered some of this, then it was Jack's fate she was seeing, not hers. Or was she fooling herself? Melli ran through what little she remembered of the vision. She had been there alongside him!

  She was out of her depth. Fate, visions, sorcery: it was all madness. Her father had spent a lifetime denying such things existed. She loved him for that. Strange to believe that before meeting Jack she would have agreed with him.

  Melli turned her attention back to the two people who were deciding what would become of her.

  "We'll head for Bren, then," Fiscel was saying. "While we're there I'll pick up a replacement."

  "As you wish."

  Silk rustled softly at first and then the light from the candle dimmed as someone passed in front of it. There was a peculiar slurping sound followed by a sharp intake of breath.

  Melli risked opening her eyes. Alysha was naked from the waist up and Fiscel was kissing her breasts. The raven-haired woman seemed impervious to the caress and stood, back straight as a spear, staring straight ahead. Melli closed her eyes again. She'd seen enough.

  There was no way of knowing how long she lay awake, listening to the small, desperate noises of Fiscel's lovemaking. But when it was over and Lorra returned to the wagon once more, she'd never been more grateful for silence.

  EIGHT

  Maybor cursed his stays for the third time in less than an hour. He cursed his dead horse, too. He thought for a few minutes and then cursed Baralis as well.

  They were approaching Bren. The city walls gleamed like steel. In their shadows awaited the cause of Maybor's bad temper: the delegation sent to greet them. Only minutes now before they met. Crucial minutes when people who counted would make their judgments. And here he was, sitting on a horse that was not his own, with a blanket tucked beneath the saddle to cushion his backside, dressed in the same cloak he'd been wearing for nearly a week!

  Baralis, Borc rot his soul, had destroyed the trunk that carried his magnificent ermine cloak when rescuing Crope from the avalanche. What was one dead servant compared to the loss of a fine cloak? Still, at least the rest of his new and hastily made wardrobe was intact, and a man only needed a cloak if he intended to venture out into the cold.

  Maybor urged his horse forward; he wanted no one to doubt that he was leader of this party. Horns sounded and the delegation from Bren swept forward to meet him.

  "We wish you welcome on this fine day, Lord Maybor," said the herald. "Your presence does honor to our city."

  "It is I who am honored to be here," replied Maybor, pleased that they knew who he was.

  "We beg the privilege of accompanying you to the palace, where the duke awaits."

  "I am content to follow your lead." Maybor inclined his head graciously, took up a position at the front of the delegation, and rode into the city of Bren.

  It was nothing like he had expected. The sheer scale of the place overwhelmed him; it made Harvell seem like a backwater. The roads were laid with cobble and stone. Tall buildings crowded close, and people lined the streets in their thousands. Soldiers were everywhere, accompanying their entourage, keeping back the crowds, their longswords hooked but not sheathed at their waists. The duke was obviously a man who understood the value of a silent threat.

  The sound of people cheering was music to Maybor's ears. He had not wanted this match, but it was plain to see that there was glory in it, and he was determined to have his share. He waved to the crowd and they responded with vigor, calling and waving their banners. There was a likeness painted on many of these banners and it took Maybor a while to realize that the handsome smiling face was supposed to be Kylo
ck. Handsome the new king might be, but he couldn't recall ever having seen him smile.

  Before he knew it they were approaching the palace gates. The drab browns and grays of the crowd gave way to the deep blue of the ceremonial guard. The gates swung open and Maybor found himself looking at the granite stronghold that formed the duke's palace. He took a sharp intake of breath; an ill-advised move, for his still tender lungs were not used to such force and retaliated by contracting violently.

  Caught between the awe inspired by the palace and the inconvenience of stifling a coughing fit, Maybor came faceto-face with the duke. Garon of Bren wore the blue of his soldiers and the same naked sword at his waist. He was lean like a fighter, and his most imposing feature was his elegant hooked nose. The duke brought his horse alongside of Maybor's and held out his arm in welcome. The two men clasped hands in the military fashion, each careful to show no weakness of grip. The courtyard was packed with people; everyone from noblemen to grooms was silent, eager to hear what passed between the two.

  "I bid you welcome, friend," said the duke.

  Maybor was aware that all eyes were upon him. He searched his mind for just the right words to impress the court of Bren. "On behalf of His Royal Highness King Kylock, sovereign of the Four Kingdoms," he said, "I am honored to accept your hospitality."

  The fool, thought Baralis, as the crowd began to murmur nervously. Now was neither the time nor place to let Bren know that the old king was dead.

  The duke's face paled visibly. There wasn't a man in the courtyard who didn't notice it. Baralis knew the duke well; he wasn't the kind of man to show any emotion in public, and the fact that his face had paled was a sign more telling than a murderous rage. Maybor would die for this! The news would be around the city before they sat down for the welcoming feast. Kylock is now a king, they would say, and the duke was shocked to hear it!

  Baralis urged his horse forward. All eyes were drawn by the movement. Maybor sent him a look filled with loathing-the man had no sense of discretion, The duke acknowledged his presence with a slight incline of his head. When he spoke his voice was cold.

  "Lord Baralis, perhaps you can tell me when King Lesketh died."

  Baralis looked into the calculating eyes of a hawk. "The king died peacefully in his sleep two weeks after we left Harvell, Your Grace. A messenger was dispatched with the news."

  "His Highness begged me to inform you that he is still eager for the match." It was Maybor, determined not to be left out of the reckoning.

  The Hawk of Bren-for that was how he was known to his enemies--ignored Maybor's comments. Raising a gloved hand, he turned his horse and made his way back toward the palace. His retinue followed him through to the inner courtyard. Baralis and Maybor were borne along with the crowd.

  The duke had ill liked learning of Lesketh's death along with the stableboys and grooms. It should have been handled differently. The duke should have heard the news in private, and it should have been left for him to decide how and when to tell his people.

  Baralis rubbed his aching hands together. Perhaps there was something to be gained from the slackness of Maybor's tongue. The duke was a proud man and would not look kindly on anyone who made him look a fool. Baralis searched for the duke's figure in the crowd. He had dismounted and was giving instructions to his equerry. Once finished he slipped away through a small side door. Not wasting a second, Baralis dismounted and followed him.

  This was the old part of the palace. The damp stone proclaimed its age. Many centuries ago it had been a fortress and then a castle and later a mighty citadel. Baralis marveled at the skill of the artisans; they had created a magnificent disguise. The structure had the look of a gracious palace, but it was fortified for war.

  The whole city was ringed with walls. Like a tree each ring marked growth, each successive duke had strengthened the battlements in a thousand small and unassuming ways. It would be a foolish army that underestimated the defenses of the city of Bren.

  Baralis reached out and touched the stone wall; it was almost a caress.

  "Do I detect a trace of proprietorship in your touch, Lord Baralis?" It was the duke, his voice cold and without humor.

  "No," said Baralis, turning to face him. "Merely admiration."

  "Then I suppose I should feel flattered," said the duke. "Not threatened."

  He was quick, too quick. Baralis searched for a way to draw the conversation away from such a dangerous, and fundamental, subject. "I am here to offer my apologies for Lord Maybor's indiscretion."

  "Apologies hold no interest to me, Lord Baralis. Has Kylock taken any action against the Halcus?"

  The Hawk had gone straight for the heart. Already he was considering the effect of Kylock's kingship on his northern neighbors. Baralis was well pleased that they were alone: there was no one here to contradict the lie. "Petty border squabbles are of little interest to Kylock. His eyes are turned inward to the court."

  The duke was not convinced. "The city of Bren thought it was getting a prince."

  "And how long did you expect him to keep that title? It was no secret that Lesketh had more use for a sickbed than a crown."

  "I expected Kylock to stay a prince until the marriage was consummated." The duke took a step forward and his face emerged from shadow. "Let's name trouble plainly, Lord Baralis. The north is already nervous of this match. Kylock being crowned is ill tidings. Kylock winning battles is a threat."

  "I haven't noticed you playing peacemaker."

  "Bren's policies are my concern, not yours," said the duke.

  "Even when those policies affect everyone in the southeast?" Baralis was not so easily intimidated into silence. "Tyren was lucky to find an ally in Bren, as he's sadly lacking in friends elsewhere."

  "The knights are being persecuted. Bren offers them safe haven."

  "Tell me, Your Grace," said Baralis, "since when did joining Bren's forces on the battlefield count as safe haven?" The duke's face hardened to muscle. There was no fat to fill out either lip or cheek. "Tyren is free to do as he wishes. No one forced him to aid my causes."

  "Such a convenient little friendship. You make sure that no one interferes with their trade and they help fight and finance your battles." The duke was about to speak, but Baralis raised a warning hand and halted the words in his throat. "Do not talk to me about the nervousness of the north, Your Grace, when well you know that it is Bren they are wary of, not the kingdoms."

  The duke's hand encircled the hilt of his sword. Jewels flashed between his fingers. "Lord Baralis," he said, "I will give you this warning once, and I advise you to heed it well. Do not make the mistake of challenging me. You may hold power at Harvell, but here in Bren my will is law. I tell you now, this marriage will go ahead only if I see fit to let it. And no second-rate nobleman from a court too long stagnant will influence me either way." The duke turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Baralis to swallow his words.

  Tavalisk was fingering his flute. He felt too weak to blow. Four days of cutting down on his food had damned near finished him off! Hunger made him vicious. Already this afternoon he had planned a suitable program of punishment for his physicians, a new method of torture for all the knights in his dungeons, and a way to fine all musicians. This burst of brilliance had only served to hone his appetite further, and now the archbishop's mind was firmly on his next meal.

  His one and only consolation was at his side: The Book of Words by Marod. If ever he needed a good reason to live as long as possible, all he had to do was glance at the book to find one. Conflict in the Known Lands was almost certain and according to Marod, he, Tavalisk, had a key part in its outcome. The archbishop had no intention of dying before he'd had a chance to play his role to the fullest.

  With that thought in mind, he pulled his bell cord. The physicians were wrong: missing supper would kill him more quickly than a thousand feasts.

  Unfortunately his aide answered the call. "Gamil, I rang in the hope I might be fed, not bored."

&nb
sp; "I thought the physicians had advised a diet of bread and music, Your Eminence."

  "I've had enough of music this week to last me a lifetime. I swear I will have every musician in Rom flogged and strung." Tavalisk smiled sweetly. "Do you play, Gamil?"

  "Alas, Your Eminence, I have no skill with music."

  "One day you must tell me exactly where your skills lie. l, for one, have seen no evidence of anything. special except an extraordinary capacity to annoy me." The archbishop reached over and jabbed his cat with his flute. The creature hissed most rewardingly. Music did have its uses, after all. "Since you're here, Gamil, you might as well tell me what you learned on your latest foray."

  "The spy has been brought in, Your Eminence. I took the liberty of questioning him-"

  "You took the liberty, Gamil!" interrupted Tavalisk, annoyed that he'd missed out on the fun of a good torture. "You mean you had someone interrogated without my knowledge or consent?"

  "I thought Your Eminence would be pleased by my initiative."

  "If I'd wanted initiative, Gamil, I would never have employed you in the first place." Tavalisk's little finger was caught in one of the air holes of the flute. Realizing that this was not a good time to look undignified, he buried his hand and the attached instrument beneath his robe. "One more lapse like this and I will be forced to take the initiative of having you dismissed. Now carry on."

  Gamil's face was a study of barely concealed malice. "The Old Man has sent two of his cronies to Bren. Apparently they left the city two days back."

  "Hmm. Then revenge for Bevlin's death is imminent. The Old Man is obviously seeking to assassinate the knight." Tavalisk was busily trying to work his finger free of the flute. "Did our former spy show any remorse for his treachery?"