A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  Magra stood up. The spell of hate and vows was broken. "I'm going to take a walk to Lark's Farm," she said. "It's about time we had some fresh eggs."

  This was a surprise. Jack and Tarissa exchanged looks. She was as baffled as he. There was no explanation other than that Magra wanted to leave them alone. She knew Rovas would be gone all day. Putting on a cloak of scarlet wool, she fastened it at her throat. Jack saw for the first time what she must have looked like twenty years earlier: a breathtaking beauty. Taller and more slender than her daughter, Magra's bearing was as much a part of her attraction as her finely chiseled face.

  Tarissa noticed he was looking at her mother. She smiled, and he saw that she was proud. There was so much Jack wanted to know. Why had they fled from the kingdoms? How had they come to be here? And why did deep lines of bitterness mark the beauty of Magra's face?

  Before she left, she threw a look at her daughter, an uneasy mix of warning and resignation.

  As soon as the door was closed Jack walked over to Tarissa. He couldn't help himself, he wanted to be close to her. She didn't move away. Meeting his gaze, she said,

  "What are you going to do now, Jack?" Her words were taunting, but her eyes sparkled an invitation.

  Jack was overwhelmed by her closeness. He had a sudden mad desire to take her in his arms:

  Tarissa smiled slowly. "Another kiss, perhaps. Or are you going to surprise me?"

  Jack knew a challenge when he heard one. He stepped forward. Drawing his hands around her waist, he lifted her into his arms. Tarissa's seductive smile was gone in an instant. She screamed and giggled and then punched him. He told her she had a good punch, for a girl. And she hit him even more. Finally he let her go.

  Like two children with no supervision, they ran around the kitchen fighting and laughing and breaking odd pieces of pottery. Everything was funny: the broth, the fire, the half-peeled turnips. The novelty of being alone together in the cottage was so overwhelming that it left them lightheaded. Tarissa wrestled free of him. "You smell of onions," she said.

  "Thank you," replied Jack. "I made a special effort." She kicked his shin and dashed away with the speed of a hare. He chased her around the kitchen, dredging up the rushes with every step. Tarissa had never looked more splendid: color in her cheeks, hair wild and curling, and breasts heaving. Jack felt a little ashamed of noticing such things, and he tried not to, but they drew his eye and engaged his thoughts--constantly.

  She caught him at it again and laughed out loud. Jack, hearing amusement not derision, laughed with her. Her eyes sparkled. He was enchanted by her confidence and the sheer earthiness of her. She was no great unapproachable lady. He felt no awkwardness around her. She may have been brought up in a different country, but she lived in his world. It was a world where kitchens were the only rooms that counted, where friends gathered around the fire, and where hard work was shared as readily as tall tales at supper.

  They stopped for a moment and Tarissa offered her hand to be kissed. Jack's heart was beating fast. Her hands were sturdy; the nails were short and not as clean as they should be. The palms were crisscrossed with tiny scars from practicing with the sword, and six perfectly formed and totally irresistible calluses graced her fingers. Bypassing the smooth white skin on the top of her hand, he kissed the calluses instead. Tarissa couldn't stop giggling, so he kissed them all again.

  She was a delight to be with. Gone was the scared girl of three nights back, gone was the haughty woman he'd first kissed. Rovas had made a fatal mistake: by trying to keep them apart he had drawn them closer. Three days of being unable to talk or hardly look at each other had driven them to this. They were strangers before, now they were united in intrigue.

  Tarissa giggled as he kissed her calluses one more time. She begged him to stop, and when he wouldn't, she pulled at his hair and bit his earlobe.

  Gradually, the biting turned into something softer, and wetter. Jack had to physically stop himself from crushing her. Her tongue traced the journey from ear to mouth. Her breasts were within reach and nothing, nothing, could prevent him from caressing them. A small murmur of encouragement thrilled him more than any touch. Tarissa became the older woman again, guiding, teaching, sure of herself in every way.

  Jack moved his hand upward, needing to feel skin rather than fabric. Tarissa pulled away. "We're moving too quickly," she said, unable to look him straight in the face. At that moment all that Grift had ever told him about women seemed true. They were false, heartless, and confusing enough to drive a man wild. Why was there nothing in his life that was simple and straightforward? His past, his future, his abilities, and now this failed attempt at lovemaking. More frustrated than angry, he pushed his hair back and sighed. "What did I do wrong?"

  She surprised him by smiling gently. "You have such beautiful hair." Leaning forward, she pushed back the strands that he'd missed. "I'm sorry, Jack. Your excitement was infectious. It carried me to a place where I wasn't ready to be." She held out her hand and he took it.

  How could he hate her? The passion drained from his body, leaving a residue of tenderness. "Then I'm sorry, too." He smiled as he spoke. Grift had told him many times that women were notorious for having a man apologize when he'd done nothing wrong. Jack didn't mind, though. The one thing Grift had forgotten to tell him was that it was all worth it.

  "Rovas is making us act like lovesick fools," said Tarissa, "yet we hardly know each other. You say you lived at Castle Harvell, but I don't know what you did there, or why you left, or who your family are."

  There it was, the question he'd dreaded all his life, its asking always inevitable. Family was what counted. It defined who a person was and where he had come from. Ultimately a man was judged by it. So what did that make him? With a mother commonly thought to be a whore and a father who didn't exist, he had nothing to boast about. And a lot to be ashamed of.

  Now was not the time to talk of family. Jack made an effort to keep the mood light. He stood up, pulling Tarissa with him, and said, "You mean I forgot to tell you I was an apprentice baker?"

  "A baker?" Tarissa was delighted.

  Jack steered her in the direction of the table. "Yes, a baker. I think it's about time I impressed you with my skills." He sat her down by the large, trestled work-top and began to pull out flour and water and fat. Next he went over to the fire and placed the baking stone in the center of the flame. "What are you going to make?" asked Tarissa, elbows on the table, engrossed in what he was doing.

  He rubbed his chin for a moment and then smiled. "Something sweet, I think." Jack worked quickly, adding everything he could find to the dough: dried fruit and peel, honey, cinnamon. After a while he looked up. Tarissa was watching him with quiet intent. " Come and help me knead the dough," he said. She shook her head. Jack was not about to be put off so easily. He stopped what he was doing and reached across the table. "Give me your hands." The moment she held them out, he took hold of them and rubbed the dough from his fingers onto hers. "Looks like you might as well do some kneading now," he said. "A little more dough will make no difference."

  Tarissa pulled a face, but came and stood beside him. Jack stepped behind her and placed her hands on the dough. Slowly, he taught her how to knead and then roll it, explaining that every dough had a different texture and showing the right way to test for it. He guided her fingers and directed her arms. Jack was acutely aware of her nearness. The curve of her neck was the most tempting sight he'd ever seen. The feel of her hands beneath his was a joy to be savored. The dough was soon forgotten and all that counted was touching and being close.

  A rattle of the door and in walked Magra. Jack and Tarissa stopped what they were doing immediately. Like lovers caught kissing, they both blushed with guilt.

  "Baking, I see," said Magra.

  "Jack was just teaching me how to knead dough," said Tarissa, hastily scraping the flour from her fingers.

  "So Jack's a baker, is he?" Magra slammed the egg basket down on the table. "Well, that's about
as good as I can expect, stuck here in the borderlands."

  Jack was more confused than ever. He thought Magra had gone out with the sole intent of leaving them alone. Now here she was, clearly unhappy with the result. Magra obviously considered him to be beneath her daughter. Why then had she conspired to bring them closer?

  Tarissa moved over to the wash basin and began to clean her hands. Jack finished shaping the dough. He turned it onto the baking stone and then covered it with a large copper pot. This was the nearest most cottages could get to an oven: heat would rise from the stone and be caught in the pot. He didn't hold high hopes for the sweet loaf; the yeast had little time to work, so the bread would be heavy.

  Glancing toward Tarissa, a thought dark with possibilities occurred to Jack. Perhaps Magra was reluctantly bringing them together because the alternative was worse.

  Uneasy with the direction his mind was traveling, and afraid where his thoughts might eventually lead, Jack quickly cleaned up the table and made his way outside. The borrowed sword was in his hand. He felt the need to do something physical. Rovas had hung an empty beer barrel from a tree, so when it was swung, Jack could practice dodging and feinting. Jack set it swinging, but dodging wasn't on his mind. He wielded the sword and stabbed the barrel over and over again. Splinters flew though the air. Jack hardly saw them. He was determined to destroy the barrel. The metal hoops raked against his sword, damaging his blade, but the wood gave way like butter. Thrust after thrust he aimed, the man who had hung the barrel his imaginary target.

  "No, Bodger. The women of Bren like their men short and hairy."

  "So you're in with a chance, then, Grift."

  "We both are, Bodger."

  "I may be short, Grift, but I'm definitely not hairy."

  "You seen the back of your neck lately? I wouldn't want to be around you come a full moon."

  "You don't believe all those old wives' tales about werewolves, do you, Grift?"

  "Have you noticed, Bodger, that it's always the old wives who live the longest?"

  "What d'you mean, Grift?"

  "I mean, Bodger, that they live that long because they know all the perils. You won't catch an old wife going out on a full moon without a supply of prunes."

  "Prunes, Grift?"

  "Aye, prunes, Bodger. The deadliest of fruits."

  "How so, Grift?"

  "Well, there's two things werewolves want to do with women: rollick 'em and then eat 'em. And I don't know if you've every rollicked a girl who's been pruning, Bodger, but let me tell you, it ain't pleasant."

  Bodger shook his head sagely. "What about the eating part, Grift?"

  "No one likes the taste of prunes, Bodger. Not even werewolves."

  The two men toasted to Grift's good sense and settled back in their chairs.

  "So who told you about the women of Bren, Grift?"

  "Gatekeeper, name of Longtoad. Apparently it's the women of Rorn who go for tall men. Anyway, he told me a few interesting things about the duke."

  "What about the duke, Grift?"

  "By all accounts the man has the sexual appetite of an owl, Bodger. He just about lives for rollickin'. But he's fussy, if you know what I mean."

  "Fussy?"

  "Aye. He's got a deep fear of catching the ghones. According to Longtoad, that's how his father died. The late duke hit the deck soon after his plums did. So the current duke only rollicks women who have never been touched."

  "Ugly women, is that, Grift?"

  "No, you fool, virgins. It's the only certain way of ensuring a girl ain't got the ghones." Grift finished his ale. "Well, Bodger, I think it's time we were going, those pews won't clean themselves."

  "It was an inspired move of yours, Grift, to get in with the chaplain. If it wasn't for that, we'd be stuck in the stables looking after the horses."

  "Aye, Bodger. My powers of persuasion are matched only by the power of my intellect."

  Every eighth step there was horse dung. A mathematical oddity, but true nonetheless. Perhaps horses got together to arrange it like that, because there was just enough distance between droppings to lure a man into a false sense of security and then splat! Dung on his shoes.

  Nabber was spending a lot of time looking at his feet. He told himself it was because of the dangers of dirt, but really it was because he was feeling a strange new emotion: guilt. He'd heard about guilt before, stories of people being stricken with it, of sorrow and madness. Swift himself had adamantly maintained that "guilt is the death of a pocket, " so Nabber had come to the logical conclusion that it was a sort of vague disease that could kill a man unless he found a cure.

  It was all Tawl's fault. Somehow the knight had managed to give him a bad dose of guilt. Here he was, man of the world, doing what every self-respecting dealer was supposed to do-make deals-yet he was feeling as if he'd committed the crime of the century. It had gotten so bad that he could hardly look a man in the face and had taken to looking at the ground with all the intent of a smircher looking for gold.

  Everything had been going fine until he'd gotten the rat oil woman involved. After that it had gone downhill faster than a greased archbishop. What had possessed him to tell that smug dandy of a fighter, Blayze, that Tawl had a shameful past? It had seemed like inspiration from the gods at the time-a sure way of goading the knight into agreeing to the match. It had worked, too. From his vantage point behind a tree at the corner of the square, he'd seen it all: the discussion, the tussle, the women, and the guards. He'd even heard Tawl say he was up for the fight. What was the matter, then? Why did he feel so bad?

  Looking back, Nabber tried to pinpoint the exact moment when he'd begun to feel the first pangs of guilt.

  It was about the time when Tawl wandered off alone, leaving Madame Thomypurse and her straw-haired daughter Corsella to talk to Blayze. Big ears weren't enough to hear what passed between the three. That in itself was a bad sign: according to Swift, "the worse the plot, the quieter the plotting. " Something had gone down there by the three golden fountains-Nabber was sure of it-and it boded no good for the knight.

  Guilt had been festering ever since, and he had to do something about it before it killed him.

  Nabber's feet picked a path to Brotheling Street

  . The loot in his pack jangling as he walked. Each clink of coinage served to irritate his already chronic condition. He'd done well by Blayze. The man had given him twenty golds, not to mention the ten slivers he'd pocketed from Madame Thornypurse herself whilst they were talking in the Brimming Bucket-there was one lady who knew how to conceal her valuables! After all, it was only fair that he reclaimed as much of Tawl's gold as possible, and Nabber was quite certain that the pouchful of loot suspended from Madame Thomypurse's underdrawers rightly belonged to the knight. So, all things considered, he'd made a pretty profit from the whole affair.

  That was only part of the problem. What if the knight lost the fight? Or worse, what if he died? He, Nabber, would be left holding the loot, and as he was already suffering from chronic guilt, such a blow would surely finish him off.

  Best to make sure it never happened. To save the knight would be the same as saving himself.

  He arrived by the red-shuttered building. For some reason, knocking at the door didn't seem like a good idea, so Nabber slipped down the adjoining alleyway and sought out the warped window casing that had proven so useful many nights earlier.

  The place was decidedly dark and dingy inside. Too early for business, a few tired-looking girls lounged around the benches, intent on getting drunk before the punters arrived. Madame Thornypurse was nowhere to be seen. A flash of bright hair marked Corsella, busy rubbing rouge into her sour, little face. Disappointed, Nabber was about to turn away when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone retching-a familiar noise to a boy who at one time had the dubious privilege of living next door to the most notorious mass poisoner in Rom: Master Sourgill, the proprietor of Sourgill's Fresh Fish Tavern.

  The retching was followed by a painful,
hacking cough, and then Corsella piped up: "Ssh, Tawl, you'll wake Mother."

  The knight was obviously in an adjoining room, so Nabber worked his way around to the back of the building. The smell, which had been bad enough in the alleyway, rose to the level of an overpowering stench. The source was an open ditch. It ran along the length of the street and was filled with things so appalling that even Nabber didn't care to look at them.

  Finding an eye-hole was not as easy as he'd hoped. Eventually he pulled some sick-looking greenery from its place on a ledge. The resulting fissure was crawling with spiders, but provided a view into the back of the building.

  Tawl was crouched on the floor, shivering from head to foot. For a brief moment Nabber was transported back to Bevlin's cottage, to the time when the knight rocked the dead man in his arms. The shock of remembrance cooled his skin and set his hands trembling. The young pickpocket was suddenly struck with the sense that he was dealing with things far beyond his ken. His life had always been straightforward: see it, want it, take it. There was profit, food, and dicing. Yet on the other side of the wall crouched a man to whom none of that mattered, and strangely, Nabber felt drawn to him for that very reason. He had no word for love, no inkling how to use it. Friendship was all that his experiences had allowed. So the extreme anger he felt toward the person who had done this-for he was no fool and guessed that a certain rodentoiled hand was responsible-he attributed to that one familiar concept.

  The guilt was so bad he thought he would be struck down where he stood. It was most definitely time to pay the lady of the house an unexpected visit.

  "Thank you, my man, just leave it on the table." Maybor waved a languorous dismissal. The second the door was closed, however, he fell on the box like a wolf on a fawn. Messages from the kingdoms.

  Several dull scrolls from his overseer concerned with dwindling winter supplies, a note from his servant Crandle advising him that he was still too ill to make the journey to Bren, and then the interesting stuff. A letter from Kedrac, and a missive, complete with ribbons and wax, written in a hand that he had seen only once before. The last time the letter had been delivered by an eagle.