by J. V. Jones
"As my life depended on it."
"Good. Until we meet again, fair lady." Nabber quickly looked toward Tawl. The knight was downing yet another skin of ale, oblivious to his surroundings. "Let him drink all he wants. It will make for smoother negotiations."
Madame Thornypurse nodded judiciously and held out her hand to be kissed. Nabber reluctantly obliged, thoughts of rat oil uppermost in his mind, and then made his way from the tavern. He struck a path toward the three golden fountains. If his plan was to work, he needed to have a few words with the duke's champion before Tawl did.
Rovas burst into the cottage. "The rumors are true: Lesketh is dead and Kylock means to win the war."
The effect of Rovas' words on Magra and Tarissa was profound. Mother and daughter looked straight at each other. All color drained from Magra's face. Tarissa stood up, sending her sewing flying into the air and went to kneel beside her mother. She took and kissed her hand. Magra pulled away. "When did this happen?" she asked. Her voice was high and strained. Jack thought she sounded angry.
"He died in his sleep over a month ago now." Rovas looked away.
Silence followed. No one moved. The fire sent shadows dancing across the room. Tarissa's face was buried in her hands. Magra sat very straight, her eyes focused on a point far in the distance. Rovas and Tarissa seemed to be waiting for her to break the silence.
Finally she did. She stood up and walked toward the fire. Her back was straight and rigid. "Kylock will win the war," she said.
Despite the weight of the words, everyone in the room seemed to draw a sigh of relief. Jack got the distinct feeling that Magra had somehow changed the subject. Yet the dead king and Kylock were the subject.
"How will this affect his marriage to Catherine of Bren?" asked Tarissa, jumping in to fill the silence. Her question was for Rovas, but she looked at Jack. She was checking to see how the strange scene had affected him. He gave nothing away. She smiled gently, and Jack,.even though he realized she had some other motive, found himself smiling back. Tarissa was the most seductive-looking woman he had ever seen. Jack's mind began to drift away from thoughts of asking questions.
"I've a feeling the marriage will go ahead regardless," Rovas was saying. "Things have progressed so far that to halt them now would cause embarrassment to both parties." The smuggler looked weary. He poured himself a tankard of ale and downed it in one.
The three continued talking, discussing the war and its possible effects, yet Jack no longer heard them. He was watching, not listening.
Tarissa was speaking, her soft and lovely mouth assuming countless beautiful forms. Jack recalled the feel and the taste of it. The memory took his breath away. Why had she pulled back from him last night, when only moments earlier she had invited him forward? There was no answer, and if Grift's counsel was anything to go by, that was not unusual with women. The castle guard had warned him many times about the perils of romance: "If you're as confused as a peacock in a snowstorm, then things are going well, " he would say. "But, if you're as carefree as a barnacle on a rock, then there's trouble acoming for sure. "
Jack had little experience with women, but he knew enough to suspect that Grift was not always right. Still, what did he expect? He'd kissed a woman older and wiser than himself. A voluptuous, tempting woman with eyes of hazeled gold. He felt a little ashamed of his thoughts; they talked of war while he thought of lust.
Taking his eyes from Tarissa, he noticed Rovas looking at him. The smuggler flashed a warning, and for half a second Jack was convinced that he was reading his mind. For some reason, Rovas didn't want him having anything to do with Tarissa. Earlier that day, when he'd been out in the back field practicing with the long sword, it had been Magra who brought his midday meal. At first Jack thought it was because Tarissa was avoiding him, but now, seeing the hostile look in Rovas' eye, he wondered whether it was because the smuggler had ordered her to stay away from him.
Jack decided to test his theory. He stretched his arms and stood up. "My body's as stiff as a week-old loaf. I'm going for a walk before it gets dark." He looked directly at Tarissa: "Do you want to join me?"
That one simple question sent a wave of looks, warnings, counter-warnings, and unreadable expressions crisscrossing among the three.
Tarissa took a deep breath, "I think that I might." She looked to her mother, appealing for help.
"It's nearly suppertime, girl," said Rovas. "You have to help your mother with the meal."
Everyone waited on Magra. The woman was staring at the smuggler. Her face held a warning that Jack couldn't understand. Didn't want to understand. "I can get supper on my own," she said. "You go ahead, Tarissa, but don't be long."
The tension between Magra and Rovas was unmistakable. It crackled as fiercely as the fire, but was as invisible as its heat. The smuggler wanted to speak up against her, that was plain to see, but she was Tarissa's mother and therefore had final say. She was scared, though, and not the only one: her daughter's hand shook as she tied the laces on her cloak.
Crack! Rovas kicked over the timber scuttle, sending chopped logs careening over the floor. "What are you waiting for?" he cried. "If you're getting supper, then damn well get it now!"
Tarissa was at her mother's side in an instant. "I won't go out, I'll stay and-"
"No," said Magra, "you and Jack take a walk."
"But-"
"Go now," she said, her tone inviting no contradiction. Standing up, she started to pick the logs from the floor. Rovas had his back to the room and was facing the fire. He didn't turn to look as they left.
The cool air blasted against Jack. Its freshness on his lips made him aware of a sour taste in his mouth: sorcery. Rovas had been lucky. He held his hand out, not sure if he needed comfort, or if he was trying to give it. Tarissa clasped it tightly and motive no longer mattered.
They walked in silence: an unspoken agreement not to speak until they were free of the cottage. The sky dimmed and the wind shifted, pushing them on their way. Jack's head felt as heavy as one of Frallit's baking stones. He hadn't even been aware that something was building inside of him. He was confused by the scene he'd just witnessed, and angry at Rovas for losing his temper. So angry he'd been ready to lash out. The frightening part was that sorcery was becoming so familiar to him that he no longer noticed its presence. One step toward Tarissa and Rovas would have been dead. Jack was sure of it. He'd done no less for Melli.
Jack's thoughts turned in midstep. Everything darkened. Nothing mattered except staying and killing the man who had raped and then murdered Melli. Rovas didn't matter, wild plans to run off to where the action was didn't matter, even Tarissa with her soft brown hair and fingers callused by swordplay didn't matter.
"Jack, you're hurting me." Tarissa pulled her hand away.
Startled, Jack said, "I'm song, I was thinking about . . ." He couldn't say "Melli," couldn't speak her name out loud. Even thinking it brought back the horror of Rovas' words: "When Tarissa found her, her head had been cut off. " To say it would risk the words becoming an image.
"Your mind is on your friend," Tarissa said. She turned to face him; Jack saw the mirror-image of his eyes in hers. "I'm sorry. . ."
He waited. The sky waited, the wind in the trees waited. She had something else to say. Only she didn't say it. She said something else, but it wasn't what she'd started.
" . . . I'm sorry about Rovas just now."
"He is very protective toward you. Like a father." Jack watched Tarissa's expression. He was almost glad when it gave nothing away.
"We have no one else except him," she said. "He took us in when we were penniless, cared for us all these years. He asks so little in return."
"What does he want from me, then?"
"I think you know that. He wants you to kill the captain."
"Why?" Strange, but by asking these questions, Jack got the impression that he was letting Tarissa off the hook. "He and Rovas were friends once," she said. "Or rather, business associates. A sm
uggler 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 Thomypurse'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, p
robably 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.
