A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

"Sir, you do me honor."

  "Lady, it is honor enough to be in your presence." Maybor felt inordinately pleased with himself: he'd said and done just the right thing. Baralis had heard him, too. The king's chancellor gave him a look filled with malice. He was sitting next to the duke's aged mother, a woman as deaf and ugly as she was old and wrinkled.

  Baralis was going to die. There was no question about it. The how and the when were all that needed deciding. He could allow no one to do what he did this morning and get away with it. No one. All his tricks and fancies wouldn't save him. The king's chancellor would rest long in the grave. Oh, but the pain had been worth it! He'd made Baralis look a fool and a liar. If anything, Bren was turning out to be his city; the duke was courting his favor, and Catherine was attending to his every need like a dutiful daughter. Even the man to his left, the great and wealthy Lord Cravin, was treating him with the respect he deserved.

  Catherine was talking with the man on her right, so Maybor took the chance of broaching the subject that was on everyone's mind, but on no one's lips. "Tell me, Lord Cravin, how is Bren taking the news of Kylock's sovereignty?"

  Lord Cravin cleaned the sauce from his fingers with meticulous care. Although he was looking down, Maybor got the uncanny feeling that he was checking every man in the room to see where their attentions lay, listening for the sound of bated breath. The lord reached over for a flagon of wine and spoke, his words an expertly fired arrow with Maybor as the only target, "Not bad enough."

  The possibility of intrigue opened like a rare and seductive bloom. Maybor was heady with its scent. Careful, must be careful, he warned himself. Quick to learn, he mimicked Lord Cravin's nonchalance by plucking the feathers from what remained of the peacock. "Things will go as planned, then?"

  "Unless someone is bold enough to change their course." Cravin handed Maybor a platter of spiced eels. "We must meet some time to discuss our-" Maybor noticed Catherine was no longer talking to the man at her side.

  "Discontent," said Cravin, stepping in, "with the eels?"

  "Yes," Maybor said. "They are not as slippery as I like them."

  "Then let me wet them a little for you," said Catherine. She took up a silver tureen and poured cameline sauce into the dish. "I trust they'll slip down your throat more easily now, Lord Maybor."

  Maybor studied the girl and could find nothing but innocent concern on her face. His attentions were suddenly distracted by Baralis standing up, goblet in hand.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the court," he said, the subtle power in his voice silencing the room in an instant. "May I propose a toast to the fairest and most gracious maiden in the whole of the Northern Territories: Catherine of Bren."

  The crowd had no choice but to second him. They raised their glasses and shouted "Aye!"

  Baralis hadn't finished. "A second toast to the greatest of leaders and the most inspired of generals: the duke of Bren." Once again the crowd backed him.

  He was leading them along as surely as a shepherd guides his sheep. Maybor guessed what was coming next. The man was a master of manipulation.

  "And a final toast," said Baralis. "To a union more glorious, more noble, and more magnificent than any joining in the history of the Known Lands: the marriage of Kylock, sovereign of the Four Kingdoms, and Catherine of Bren."

  The crowd rose to meet him. Shouting and banging, their enthusiasm was so contagious that even Maybor found his foot tapping along. Baralis had done a fine job; he had taken a court that was reluctant and whipped them into a frenzy of self-congratulation. Who, looking around this room now, could honestly say that Bren was against the marriage?

  Those who looked closely at the duke's face, perhaps. His hand was a little stiff as he raised his glass, his smile a tad reluctant. The man did not enjoy watching his court being manipulated. Maybor rubbed his stubbled chin. There were possibilities here. Chinks that could be made into breaches. The betrothal would stick-Baralis had made sure of that tonight-but the marriage was a long way off. Much might happen over the coming months. For one thing, Kylock could win the war with the Halcus, that would certainly make everyone nervous. The duke might change his mind, for another. And then there was the latest development: intrigue.

  Maybor glanced toward Lord Cravin. The man was cheering along with all the gusto of a well-polished actor. A wise move, and one he could learn by. It was best to seem in favor of the match for the time being. The most effective strike was an unexpected one. Maybor took up his cup and toasted the betrothal. If the wine was a little bitter on his tongue, he let no one know it.

  Catherine of Bren unpinned the pearl circlet from her hair and slipped the pearl earrings from her lobes. She looked at herself in the mirror and her lips curved to half a smile. It had been an interesting evening.

  Sitting between two fools-one boring, one vain.

  The king's envoy had failed to impress her. He'd passed the time spitting, plucking feathers, and flirting, but the king's chancellor ... Catherine's smile spread ... now there was a man to be reckoned with. Until yesterday it was Lord Baralis, not Lord Maybor, who she was due to sit next to at the banquet. Apparently her father was punishing him for something, Could Lord Baralis help it that the old and doddering King Lesketh had finally popped off?

  Yes, an interesting evening. She'd played the part of dumb female well: her guests' cups were never empty, their vanities constantly flattered, and their meats well moistened with sauce. Catherine began to untie the lacings on her dress. Lord Cravin had so discreetly let his displeasure be known, hoping to find an ally in Lord Maybor. It wasn't important; there was nothing they could do to halt the match. Just seeing how cleverly Lord Baralis had handled the court made her confident of that.

  She would be a queen not of one but two countries.

  A timid knock was heard upon her door. "Go away, Stasia, I will undress myself. Do not disturb me till morning." Catherine hooked her hands beneath the neckline of her dress and pulled the heavily brocaded silk away from her body. Next came the linen shift beneath. As she drew it over her head, the material caught against the belt. The shift ripped in two. "Damn!" she muttered, cursing the iron monstrosity that rested upon her hips: her maiden's belt.

  Molded from two ribbons of iron, dull and heavy, yet snake-close to her body, it was the bane of her existence. Made to her exact and most intimate measurements, it combined the skills of a craftsman with the guile of an armorer. Like the very palace itself, she was alluring on the outside, but impregnable within. The belt rubbed against her belly and buttocks constantly, raising welts and chafe-sores. The first year of wearing it she'd nearly died of an infection, so it had been sent back to the forge to be made anew. What emerged was something more delicate, yet just as monstrous.

  Five years she'd endured it. Five years of not being able to bathe or relieve herself properly. Five years of sweat, rust, and humiliation.

  No one wore them anymore-if indeed anyone ever had-they were a thing of the past, read about in stories, giggled about whilst embroidering. Still, here she was, the highest-ranking female in the greatest court in the Known Lands, trussed up as surely as a felon in the stocks. Her father was keen on keeping up the traditions of his ancestors, traditions that warned of the weak nature and insatiable sexual appetites of the women of Bren. She would never forgive him for it.

  Though it did have its advantages. As long as she wore it she was above suspicion. Catherine gently caressed the metal. Ancient runes of warding were etched upon the curve.

  She had learned long ago that they had no power to guard. She began to concentrate upon the point where lock and solder met, gently warming the join. She could taste the metal on her tongue. It excited her. Nausea threatened, but she ignored it. The tiny pinpoint of metal shifted and grew pliable with the heat. Catherine drew a little more. All of the belt was now warm to the touch. The heat between her legs excited her further.

  Instinctively, she knew the exact moment when the solder would give. She pulled upon the hinge and th
e belt opened enough for her to slip it over her hips and step from it. 'Twas a foolish man who thought his valuables were safe just because he locked the door.

  Her legs were weak, threatening to give way beneath her. She stumbled to her bed, feeling triumphant and lighthearted. Where was Blayze? She wanted him now.

  Pouring herself a glass of red, she settled back to wait. The duke had done her a service by forcing the maiden's belt upon her: she had been obliged to learn sorcery to escape from it. Her handmaiden Stasia had an aunt who had knowledge of such things. Of course, Catherine hid her real intent, saying she was interested in metals because her jewelry so often broke. A weak excuse, but who would dare contradict the duke's daughter? Especially an old woman who was breaking ancient laws by practicing sorcery.

  At first the woman had told her she had no talent, that it was passed down in the blood and that the house of Bren had been gifted with real power, not magic. There was a little there, though. Probably from her mother's side. Not much, just a trace, but sufficient to work with. So she had learned enough to weaken the solder and a few other tricks that were useful to know. The old crow had died a few months back and Catherine had found herself a little restless since. She missed the thrill of new knowledge and the danger of discovery.

  Running her hands down her thighs, she admired the smoothness of her body. Such long legs, such pale, unblemished skin. The only thing that marred the length was the small birthmark that rested just above her ankle. The sign of the hawk, bome by all men and women of the house of Bren. It marked her as her father's daughter. An irrefutable sign of her lineage-and she wore it with pride.

  A triple knock upon the shutter. About time. She didn't bother to cover her nakedness as she crossed over to the window, Unhooking the latch, she stood back and watched as the duke's champion climbed through the gap.

  "Where have you been?" she demanded. Blayze reached out to kiss her, but she pulled away. There was ale on his breath.

  "Arranging a few things." His eyes were upon her breasts. Catherine covered them with her hands.

  "What things?"

  "My fight with the yellow-haired stranger from out of town." He walked over to the trestle table and poured himself a glass of wine. He stood for a moment, perfectly aware that he cut a fine figure in a new tunic and with glass in hand. "Everything went well. It's on for next week."

  "My father will be glad to hear it. He was hoping to entertain his guests with a spectacle."

  "Then he'll get one." Blayze seemed rather pleased with himself. He sat on the bed and slapped his thigh, beckoning her to join him. Another time she might have held out, but the sorcery still ran hot in her blood. She came over and sat on his lap. He was strong and well muscled; a fighter, not a courtier.

  "So tell me about your challenger," she said.

  "A loser. A fallen knight who's been lucky in his choice of opponents. I can't understand what all the fuss is about."

  "So you're sure to win?"

  "I nearly killed him where he stood. We met outside the palace by the three fountains," said Blayze. "The man went for my throat."

  Catherine thought for a moment. "You can't afford to lose this fight," she said.

  "No chance of that."

  "But I've heard that all of Bren is talking about him." Blayze pushed her away. "Then they're talking about someone who's not worthy of their breath."

  Catherine moved toward him, offering her breasts to be kissed. He was angry, so he was rough, and that was the way she wanted it. Their lovemaking was fierce, a wrestling match of tumbles and holds. Blayze pinned her to the bed whilst his tongue traced the red marks left by the maiden's belt. His saliva stung the still-tender flesh, but it made her desire him all the more.

  Later, when the candles guttered in the remains of the wax, and when they lay exhausted on the bed, Catherine sought out Blayze's hand. She felt tender toward him. She would soon go on and marry someone else. A glorious future was hers, but Blayze had nothing except his title as duke's champion. Such an honor, dependent solely upon physical prowess, was by its very nature purely transitory.

  "You will win, won't you?" she said.

  Blayze was affectionate, kissing her wrists. "Of course I will, my love. There's no need to worry."

  "But I do worry. What if this man lands a lucky blow?" She thought for a moment that she'd pushed too far. Blayze stood up and started getting dressed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you,"

  He turned toward her and said softly, "Catherine, do you really think I would leave something as important as this to chance?"

  The words thrilled her. "What have you planned?"

  "I can beat this lance blindfolded, but as you said, there's always the chance of a lucky blow." Blayze paused and Catherine nodded her encouragement. "So I had a quiet word with the landlady of the inn he's staying at-though inn might be too generous a description."

  "The woman runs a brothel?"

  Blayze nodded. "Aye, so she knows the value of the duke's own coinage. Anyway, she's going to poison his food. He'll have slowed down quite considerably by the night of the contest."

  Catherine stood up and put her arms around Blayze. Kissing him full on the lips, she used her tongue as a lure: she wanted him again. Men were always more interesting when they used their wits as well as their muscle.

  ELEVEN

  It was early morning in the cottage. Tarissa was busy stoking the fire and Magra was at the table peeling turnips. Rovas, silent and moody for some days now, had gone out an hour earlier, muttering that he wouldn't be back before nightfall. Jack was glad; the place was more peaceful without him. It was nice just to sit and enjoy the pleasures of mulled holk while taking in the sounds and smells of the beginning of the day.

  Broth was slowly warming, its delicate fragrance competing with the cinnamon from the holk. Long-dried herbs hung from the rafters and the warmth from the fire sweetened their smell. Brushing and scraping, chopping and mixing; the sounds of the kitchen were a familiar comfort. The women had smiled at him earlier when he'd taken up a knife and started slicing onions. He didn't see anything unusual about it; in the kitchens at Castle Harvell, a boy who was idle was asking for a beating.

  The sword that Rovas had given him stood resting against the pickling vat. As a baker's boy he had always been strong; kneading enough dough to feed the castle each day soon put muscle on a man's arms and chest, but using the longsword required new muscles and new strength. His back had to bear the considerable weight of the blade, and his flank the brunt of the thrust. Jack's legs were aching, too. Rovas spent a lot of time explaining balance, not just centering the blade upon the body, but also balancing upper strength with lower. "When wielding a longsword a man's in danger of becoming top heavy," he would say. "You need muscle on your thighs to even out the weight." So the smuggler had him running up hills and barrel rolling.

  Ever since Jack had defied him by taking a walk with Tarissa, Rovas had used their training sessions as a form of punishment. Practice had become dangerous. Rovas was remarkably skilled with the blade, light on his feet, firm with his grip, and always quick to thrust. Jack had no chance against him. Sitting here in the kitchen chopping pork bones for the broth, he only had to look down at his arms to see the full extent of Rovas' hostility over the past three days. His arms were covered in cuts and bruises.

  He was getting better, though. Yesterday the smuggler had tried to make him look a fool by forcing him back against a tree. Jack had rallied his strength and somehow managed to land a decent blow. His blade grazed the length of Rovas' sword and came to rest in the flesh of his wrist. The look of indignant surprise made the later thrashing worth it.

  Jack didn't know what to make of this strange household that he found himself in. Tensions ran deep, yet he didn't know what caused them, or why his presence seemed to aggravate them further. Magra was a dilemma. Proud and cold as the greatest courtier, he thought at first she was against him, but only minutes before they'd shared a joke about the
onions and she'd patted his shoulder gently. He couldn't pretend to know about such things-after all, what experience did he have of anything except baking and beatings-but he got the distinct impression that Magra was being nice to him merely to spite Rovas.

  One thing was certain: both Magra and Tarissa were afraid of the wide and usually jaunty smuggler. They laughed and teased him, but they each stepped carefully, as if frightened of waking a sleeping bear.

  Another thing certain was that he had to stay here. Now more than ever. Tarissa had lied when she said Rovas had given so much, yet asked for so little in return. Expecting her to kill a man for him was currency of the highest tender. What kind of man would do such a thing to a girl who was as good as his daughter? Leaving was out of the question. If he left now, Tarissa would never be free of Rovas. They would become accomplices in murder, bound together by shared secrets, fear, and guilt.

  Jack glanced quickly at her. Tarissa was putting the bellows to the fire. Her sleeves were rolled up and the muscles on her arms pushed against her skin. Her face was illuminated by the flames. The golden light suited her. She looked young and strong and self-possessed. Jack's hands curled up to a fist. How could Rovas have expected her to kill someone? How could he have forced this honest and hardworking girl into acting as his assassin?

  Jack felt hatred swell in his stomach. It suited him to let it build. Rovas lived to control the women in this cottage. He wanted to have the power of life and death over them. He wanted to make Tarissa his partner in crime.

  Tarissa put down the bellows and smiled Jack's way. "I've blown a gale on that fire," she said, "and it still looks fit to die." She had ash on her nose and in her hair. A single curl fell across her cheek and she blew it away like a feather. She was so straightforward, no airs or graces. Nothing hidden.

  Jack found it hard to return her smile, but he did. And as his lips stretched then curved, there was no question in his mind that he would have to kill the Halcus captain. He couldn't let Rovas corrupt and then blackmail this spirited girl before him.