A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  No sudden and suspicious end for the Hawk. Soon after the marriage of Catherine and Kylock was consummated, the duke would start to complain of a slight biliousness of the gut. Months would pass and the duke's ailment would gradually worsen. There would be cramps and vomiting and then blood in the urine. By this time poison would be suspected and the duke would eat nothing that had not been tested. 'Twould be too late. The poison-a drink shared in celebration with the king's chancellor to mark the night his daughter was bedded-would have gnawed so deeply into stomach and liver that nothing but Borc's grace could save him.

  He had Tavalisk to thank for the poison. The information he'd gleaned from the archbishop's library was well worth the price of the loan. What was one war, if it helped him win another, more glorious, one?

  The poison was as subtle as the silken rugs of Isro and as deadly as their blades. One drink was enough: it settled in the gut and gradually corrupted the tissue that cradled it.

  The sharp taste would be a problem, but by choosing to administer it on a night of celebration, Baralis was hoping to pass it off as a traditional bridal drink, complete with exotic herbs and spices.

  That was all in the future, though; for the time being he needed to concentrate on finalizing the betrothal. It had been foolish of him to challenge the duke yesterday-Maybor's stupidity had been catching. He had to ingratiate himself with the duke and his court. There were worries to be allayed and problems to be smoothed over, and when all else failed there were bribes to be given.

  Baralis reached the magnificent visitors gallery. Domed ceilings were currently the latest fashion in the south, and the duke's palace boasted the only one in the north. Voices floated across its lofty expanse. There was no mistaking the rough-barrel sound of Maybor.

  "So you see, Your Grace, Kylock is planning to finish the war once and for all."

  "Indeed, Lord Maybor," came the duke's low and deceptively smooth voice. "I am gratified to hear it."

  Baralis crossed the tiled floor with the speed of a panther. He ignored Maybor and bowed to the duke. "Good morning, Your Grace."

  "Lord Baralis, I trust you slept well?" The duke didn't wait for an answer. "My steward felt that the north wing might be a little damp. I told him only you could be the judge of that."

  "My rooms are more than satisfactory."

  "Good," said the duke. "The king's envoy has just been telling me of Kylock's wish that the war with the Halcus be won as soon as possible."

  "He'll be planning to send more troops to the border," chipped in Maybor.

  Baralis felt hate so potent it nearly turned to sorcery on his lips. He took a calming breath to control himself. Not since adolescence had he come so close to drawing out of sheer emotion. Maybor was acting like a malicious fiend; he was well aware that the slightest hint of aggression from Kylock would endanger the match. Not only that, the man was inventing details of his own! He didn't have the slightest idea whether or not Kylock intended to send more troops to the front. To make matters worse, here was the duke picking the man's brains like a glutton at a feast and flattering him all the while by calling him king's envoy!

  "As king's chancellor," said Baralis, "I will be the first to know when Kylock decides to move against the Halcus." Time to play Maybor at his own game. If lies were called for, let no one find him wanting. "Kylock begged me to assure Your Grace that although, as Lord Maybor has just stated, he wishes to win the war, he will take no action until the marriage vows have been spoken."

  Maybor's mouth opened in protest but, probably unable to find a suitably diplomatic way of contradicting him, he closed it again.

  The duke did not look pleased. "As you gentlemen seem to be having some difficulty agreeing on an official version of Kylock's policies," he said, "I think I will leave you alone and let you fight it out amongst yourselves." With that the duke bowed smartly and left.

  Baralis and Maybor stared at each other until the sound of the duke's footsteps receded to nothing more than a distant flapping.

  Maybor waggled his finger and tutted. "Been leading His Grace astray, I see," he said. "I considered it my duty as king's envoy to put him straight."

  This was too much for Baralis. The drawing was on his tongue in an instant. It slivered through the air with the force of his intent. A second later Maybor was doubled up in pain. "If you ever, ever, make me look a fool again," hissed Baralis to the curve of the man's back, "I swear that I will smite you down where you stand." Satisfied that his threat had been heeded, Baralis withdrew the sorcery.

  A servant walked past and glanced their way. Maybor straightened up, his breathing quick and strained, his face purple. "You will regret this day in hell, " he rasped.

  Baralis almost admired the way the great lord mastered his pain by walking away with head held high.

  The drawing had been a warning blow, nothing more. It was never wise to draw directly against another. There was always a chance that a man's will could interfere, causing the power to snap back with the momentum of a strung bow. Sorcerers had died that way. Some drawings could be easily done: a compulsion upon the muscles to prevent them from contracting, a delving into the mind to search for answers, a survey of the tissue to find diseases. But they were all instances that caused no harm to the body, their effects purely temporary. If one wanted a man dead it was far wiser, and safer, to use a method other than sorcery to kill him.

  Sorcery served better as accomplice than assassin. Winter's Eve had been the exception. When the flash of a blade had warned of immediate danger, learning gave way to instinct-and Baralis had paid the price for it. Dumb creatures were a lot easier to harm, though there was danger even then. Drawing himself into Maybor's horse had been a risk. Sorcery acted like an infection: it triggered the body's natural defenses. Animals, particularly large ones, had been known to fight off drawings. During his time in the Far South, Baralis once watched a man die who was trying to cause harm to a bear.

  He had traveled to Hanatta a month after his mother's funeral. The small farming community where he'd lived hadn't suspected that he was responsible for her death. They shook their heads and called it a natural miscarriage. His masters had known, though. Her corpse stank of sorcery. But what could they do? He was a child who had made a childish mistake. They wanted to be rid of him all the same. So they coated their desire in a layer of concern: "We can teach you no more, Baralis, your skills are beyond us. In the Far South there is much to learn. " They hoped he would never come back.

  Thirteen, he was. Sent on a journey across the drylands and then over the mountains and into the tropics. He'd traveled with a pilgrimage of knights and priests. A week before they reached Hanatta, he murdered a man. This time with intent. Rain beat down upon leather hides, but that was not what woke him. A man's hand reaching for the smoothness of thigh beneath the coarseness of blanket did. The dagger, a parting gift from his father, slid into the man's belly like a marker into a barrel of ale. Sorcery honed the blade, but his hand held the haft.

  The next morning they found him: fast asleep with a dead man at his side. The air was so humid that the blood was still wet on his thighs.

  For the second time that year he was pronounced free of guilt. Who would condemn a boy for taking measure against such an act? Just like his masters, the pilgrims couldn't wait to be rid of him.

  Hanatta was a city so foreign, so completely different from anything he'd ever known, that it scared and thrilled in one. People so striking that to look at them was a joy, jostling past others so disfigured that Baralis wondered how they survived. He soon found the man to whom the letter of introduction was addressed. He'd read the letter hundreds of miles earlier. It was an unmistakable warning: ... Baralis is brilliant, yet needs to be taught kindness and humanity, else he turn into something that we all might regret.

  The masters at Leiss had badly miscalculated. The man they sent him to was concerned with ability, nothing else. Moral niceties were pushed aside in the pursuit of knowledge. Four glorious
years of experimentation and discovery followed. There was nothing they didn't try. No drawing was too heinous, no ritual too bloody, no animal too valuable to lose.

  The sorcery of the Far South was different from that of Leiss. More subtle, less reliant on potions and physical strength, and infinitely more sophisticated. He learned how to make creatures his own, and perfected the skill of entering and then searching the body. Looking back now, he realized that the manuscript at Leiss which contained the means of his mother's death had probably come from Hanatta. Danger was a constant companion. His hands suffered their first disfigurement when he laid them upon an oxen and tried to get her to drop her calf It was before her time and she fought the compulsion with all her strength. Nature was on her side. The thread broke, and before he knew it his hands were burning. The energy from the drawing demanded an outlet. His flesh bore the scars to this day,

  Still, it was nothing compared to what he saw later in an open air bear-baiting ring close to the meat market. Bearbaiting could be seen on every street corner in Hanatta. It was the city's favorite pastime, and fortunes were won or lost on the performance of a hound. Baralis enjoyed the spectacle of blood and carnage. He liked watching the faces of the spectators as the dogs harried the bear. This night the crowd was anxious; high on nais and a week of fasting, they were eager for excitement.

  The hounds belonged to a man of great wealth and importance. The collars around their necks were beaten gold. They were inbred for carnage: thick-necked, strong-jawed, with teeth that gripped till death. Loosed into the enclosure, they drew circles about the bear, working together to agitate and confuse.

  All went well at first. One of the hounds drew close, distracting the bear while the other approached from the side. The beast let out a mighty squeal as the hound's teeth sank into the flesh of its foreleg. The bear raised up on its hind legs and the dog left the ground. Wild with frenzy, it swung its mighty paws in a half-circle and the dog lost its grip. The sheer force of the bear's momentum sent the hound flying to the far side of the enclosure. The crack of its skull was clearly heard. One dog left and its wealthy owner was getting nervous.

  Baralis saw the man searching the crowd for a face. A moment later he nodded to a man dressed like a beggar, and soon after Baralis felt the beginning of a drawing. Straight away he realized what was happening: a sorcerer was attempting to weaken the bear. His mistake was to do it too gradually. He needed to make it look natural, to mimic the signs of fatigue. At first he did a good job, slowing the creature down by restricting the blood flow to its heart. Then the bear became frightened. It ignored the remaining dog and crashed into the fence. The crowd scattered and all but one got away. A young boy was trapped beneath the tangle of wood that had been the enclosure. The bear, shaking and in pain, fell upon its victim.

  The sorcerer tried to withdraw. Desperation marked the intent. With the crowd screaming and the bear tearing the boy limb from limb, the drawing began to turn. Blood frenzy was upon the bear. The power of instinct fought for the beast. Will to survive met with silent knowledge accumulated over hundreds of centuries-and struck with the force of a whip. The bear's blood pumped fast and furious, smashing through the sorcerer's clasp.

  No one paid any attention to the beggar in the crowd. The raging bear was a greater spectacle. The man in rags fell to the ground, foaming at the mouth. His body was racked by spasms and blood seeped from his nose and ears and eyes. A minute later he was dead, his skull split by the backlash of the drawing.

  It was never wise to spend too long in any creature. If a deed were to be done, then let it be done swiftly. He'd given Maybor's horse no chance to react, slipping in with the grace of a dancer and then striking with the speed of a storm. He'd learned caution that day by the meat market. There was little glory in coming to the same end as the sorcerer who had drawn upon the bear.

  Nabber scraped the dung from his shoes and cursed all animals, especially horses. The problem with following someone was that your eyes had to be on your mark, not your feet. Now, filth was as much part of city life as markets and merchants, and Nabber usually had no opinion on it, but only this morning he'd taken it upon himself to lift a very splendid and very flimsy pair of silk shoes. Swift had once said, "A pocket's shoes are his greatest defense, " and always advocated cloth, not leather, for those on the game. Silk was indisputably silent, but it also had the unfortunate tendency to soak through with urine and slops the minute a man walked out the door.

  Still, they were an excellent fit and he had other more important things to occupy his mind than the stains on his shoes.

  Tawl was drinking in' the tavern opposite. There had to be some way to get him to come to the meeting. Loot wouldn't be enough, or would it? Minutes earlier the knight had walked into the Brimming Bucket accompanied by the woman with straw yellow hair and the lady proprietor of the brothel, Madame Thornypurse. If there were ever any females who liked money better than those two did, then Nabber had never met them.

  Action was called for, and with shoes squelching at every step, he crossed the street and entered the tavern. The Brimming Bucket would have been more aptly named the Leaking Bucket, for there was ale everywhere and it wasn't confined to the cups and the barrels. Nabber's shoes found themselves in a foamy puddle a wrist deep. People were shouting and singing and brawling. Two women were arm wrestling, a group of men were busy swapping insults, and one man was holding a cup full of beer to his eye.

  Kylock, Kylock, Kylock. The name was on everyone's lips. Even the men who were insulting each other were speaking it. "You're as devious as Kylock and as ugly as his father's corpse," said one of them, receiving grunts of appreciation from the crowd.

  "You should speak the name of our future king with respect," piped up another.

  "Kylock will never be king here!"

  "The duke wouldn't let him."

  "The duke won't live forever."

  "Catherine will rule Bren, not Kylock."

  "She'll marry him, use his armies, rape his country, and then send him back to his mother!"

  "Aye!" came the voice of the crowd as one.

  Nabber had little interest in such worldly matters. Whoever was ruler in Bren made no difference to him. Loot was what counted, not kings. He pushed through the crowds, kicking shins and stomping on toes when people refused to move out of his way. He soon heard the shrill voice of Madame Thornypurse.

  "My sister will be arriving next month," she said. "Couldn't bear staying in the kingdoms a moment longer. The place is such a backwater, you know." The good lady spotted Nabber. "You're the messenger from the other day, aren't you, boy?" She patted the back of her heavily powdered hair and smiled. "I never forget a face."

  "A good memory is the least of your charms, Madame Thornypurse," replied Nabber with a short bow. It never hurt to flatter the ladies--even the ugly ones.

  "Such a fine young man." Her eyes narrowed for a moment. "Another message to deliver?"

  "As perceptive as you are beautiful." An idea was beginning to form in Nabber's head. "Is the knight here?"

  "Just over yonder with my daughter, Corsella."

  So that was what the thieving, dyed-haired, hanger-on was called. "I just can't believe it," he said.

  Madame Thomypurse looked confused. "Believe what?"

  "I can't believe that you're her mother." Nabber smiled winningly. "Tell me the truth. You're sisters, aren't you?" Simpering like a girl a third of her age, Madame Thornypurse said, "You're not the first to ask me that. It's the rat oil, you know."

  "Rat oil?"

  "Yes, very expensive. You have to squeeze a lot of rats to get even half a cup."

  Nabber was feeling decidedly out of his depth. He hadn't got the slightest clue what rat oil was. He proceeded with caution. "It's worth the expense."

  "I rub it into my face twice a day." That explained a lot of things. "Should I call the knight over?" she asked.

  Nabber shook his head and looked down at his feet. "What's the matter, young m
an?" said Madame Thornypurse. "I detect a little reluctance on your part."

  "You are a perceptive woman. I am a little nervous about approaching him." Nabber got the reply he'd hoped for:

  "Can I help in any way?"

  "Madame Thornypurse, I wouldn't dream of burdening you with a matter of such. . ." Nabber made a great show of choosing the right word ". . . importance."

  "Importance?"

  "And profit."

  Madame Thornypurse's entire body quivered at the word profit. She took a step forward and laid a proprietorial hand upon his shoulder. "Tell me everything, my dear boy."

  "You've heard of Blayze, the duke's champion?" Madame Thornypurse nodded eagerly. "Well, he's interested in meeting with your friend, the knight."

  "He wants a fight?" cried Madame Thornypurse. "Ssh. Don't tell half the tavern."

  Madame Thornypurse looked suitably contrite. "Go on."

  "There's no need to tell you," said Nabber, "of the vast sums of money that will change hands on such a venture."

  "No need at all," she whispered.

  "Now this is strictly confidential." Nabber could feel Madame Thornypurse's fingers digging into his shoulder. "If the knight dies-and let's face it, there's a good chance of that-someone will have to bury him."

  The girlish glow of greed faded from the good lady's face. "Bury him?"

  "As the knight has no family in the city, whoever agrees to care for his body will take his portion of the spoils."

  "The knight is like a son to me!" cried Madame Thornypurse. "I would consider it my duty to care for his dearly beloved corpse."

  "You are a remarkable woman," said Nabber. "Now, let's get down to business. The knight needs to meet Blayze tonight at sundown by the three golden fountains. Can you arrange for him to be there?"