A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  Maybor turned to his son's letter first. The handwriting was large and familiar, so it was relatively easy for him to read.

  Good. Kedrac had seen sense over the chambermaid affair, stating that, "No woman, especially a dead one, should be allowed power enough to break the bonds between father and son. "

  The boy knew how to choose his words. Maybor was well pleased. Kedrac was now his again and, with Melliandra gone perhaps never to return, he valued what remained of his family more highly. As he read on, joy turned to excitement. Kedrac was talking about the new king. Apparently Kylock was turning out to be quite a leader: "Father, he is brilliant. His plan for defeating the Halcus is both daring and inspired. He intends to send a battalion into enemy territory and attack the border forces from the rear. "

  Maybor drew a hand to his face and scratched his chin reflectively. If Kylock succeeded, it would certainly put an end to the stalemate, though it seemed rather an aggressive act for a country whose only concern was supposed to be securing its borders. Baralis would not be pleased about this. As he folded his son's letter, a wicked smile stretched across Maybor's lips. Kedrac had provided him with an interesting morsel to let drop upon the duke's plate. He was going to have to be careful with his politicking. No one must know that he was against the match, not even his son, for it seemed from the letter that Kedrac admired his sovereign. Perhaps was even privy to Kylock's inner council: plans of attack were a covert business. Yes, discretion was most definitely called for. Best not to risk the anger of the newly crowned king.

  On to the next letter. Waxed, but not sealed. According to Crandle, it had arrived a few days after he'd left for Bren. With fingers a little stiffer than he'd like, Maybor unraveled the scroll. Damned foreign handwriting! All loops and fancy dangles-a man could ruin his eyesight just deciphering it. Slowly the words took shape. It was the second letter from the mysterious would-be conspirator from a city far in the south. Only not so mysterious now: "You rightly guessed that I am a man of the Church. Ask yourself this, then: who is the only man of God who holds power worth the wielding?" It had to be the archbishop of Rorn. A small yet very intense thrill passed down Maybor's back. He was intriguing on a grand scale now. Reading on, he found more to his liking: "The union between Bren and the kingdoms will cast a broad shadow over the north. He who is responsible for the joining will guide its progress. " And then, further down the page: "If you harbor the desire to oppose the match, you will find the might of the south behind you. " The archbishop was obviously not a man to parry words like a love poet.

  Maybor put down the letter and took up his cup. All in all, two very interesting exchanges. He felt as if he'd been endowed with new power. There was a danger here, though.

  The worst kind: personal danger. To be a thorn in Baralis' side was one thing, to risk his own lands and position was quite another. His step must be light and his voice as quiet and beguiling as an angel.

  Dipping quill into ink, he set about writing a reply to the letter from the east. The task took many hours, Maybor learning subtlety as he wrote.

  Nabber knocked loudly on the door. "Open up! Open up! Duke's business."

  Corsella, freshly rouged and all the worse for it, answered. She took one look at him, and said, "Bugger off, you little snot."

  Foot in the door, Nabber pressed his advantage. "I'm a friend of your mother's. I was talking with her the other day in the Brimming Bucket. It was me who arranged the fight for Tawl."

  "You do look sort of familiar. Who are you, then?" Corsella, while matching Madame Thornypurse in looks, obviously fell short of her mother's intelligence. Which suited Nabber nicely.

  "I'm Blayze's brother..." Nabber searched for an appropriate name ". . . Scorch. And I must have a word with your mother as soon as possible."

  Corsella simpered in memory of the handsome champion. "You don't look like him."

  "Aah, well, he's got my father's nose. Mine came from a distant uncle."

  "Hmm."

  "Look, I really don't care whether you believe me or not, but how will your mother react when she finds you closed the door on the duke's own messenger?"

  Madame Thornypurse was obviously less than a loving mother, for Corsella thought for a moment, and then said, "You better come in."

  She led him through to the large open room he'd spied on from the alleyway. The lounging ladies merely ignored him. A large man who he'd never noticed before was sitting in the corner putting an edge to his blade. Nabber was silently praying that Tawl would stay in the back of the house; now was not the time to be recognized. A few minutes later Corsella returned.

  "Mother will see you in her chamber."

  Madame Thornypurse in her bedclothes was a sight to be reckoned with. Wearing a white sleeping gown and cap, she looked like a hideous, vengeful angel. There was a vaguely putrid smell in the room, probably the rat oil.

  Nabber was nervous, but determined not to show it. He took up her hand and kissed it. "Good evening, fair lady." The fair lady was having none of it. She snatched back her hand. "You never told me you were Blayze's brother." Nabber shrugged. "There was no point in telling you." He thought for a second, then added, "Besides, everyone in Bren knows of me, I assumed you would, too." That seemed to do it. The skepticism drained from Madame Thornypurse's face.

  "So what do you want?"

  "Well, you know you and my brother arranged to..." Nabber let the sentence dangle, hoping that Madame Thornypurse would finish it for him.

  "Give the knight a few doses of poison?" she prompted. Nabber sucked in his breath. Nothing in his whole life had made him as angry as those casually dropped words. This woman was poisoning Tawl!

  Before he knew it, his knife was in his hand. He cursed its shortness. Madame Thornypurse screamed and tried to scramble away. Nabber was hardly aware of what he was doing. He wanted to hurt this woman badly. She cowered back in the bedclothes. Her slippered foot protruded from the sheets. With one mighty thrust, Nabber stabbed it. Blood spurted from the wound. Madame Thornypurse wailed hysterically.

  Corsella and the man who'd been tending his blade burst into the room. The man was wielding his newly sharpened knife. Corsella screamed and went to swipe at Nabber.

  Nabber dodged and found himself face-to-face with the blade.

  Madame Thornypurse was holding her foot and screaming, "Kill the little bastard!"

  As feet seemed to be working for him, Nabber stamped hard on the knife-man's toes. "Aagh," cried the man, making the error of thrusting his blade at the same time he was clutching his toe. Nabber shot past him in an instant. Corsella grabbed hold of his hair and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Nabber didn't like anyone touching his hair, and he punched Corsella hard in the stomach.

  Screams of mother and daughter filled the air. Just as he reached the door, the knife-man caught up with him. His face was murderous. He grabbed Nabber's arm and twisted it hard behind his back. Nabber heard a crack as it was dislodged from the joint. The pain brought tears to his eyes. The knife-man brought the blade to his throat. "I'm gonna slice you to ribbons," he said, pushing the knife forward.

  In that instant someone entered the room. Nabber heard the sliver of the knife leaving its sheath. And then a voice familiar, "You touch that boy and you'll die before you draw your next breath." It was Tawl.

  Blood wet and sticky trickled down Nabber's chest. The blade had found flesh. Nabber felt faint with shock: his flesh. The knife-man backed away slowly. Mother and daughter were quiet. Tawl's expression was enough to frighten anyone into silence. Deadly silence.

  The second the blade was drawn back from his chest,

  Nabber felt strong arms about him. Their touch was the most comforting thing he'd ever felt. He promptly fainted. The last thing he was aware of was the reassuring smell of the knight as he carried him from the brothel.

  TWELVE

  Nabber became aware of a dull pain in his shoulder. He shifted slightly, hoping to ease it, but could find no relief. Apart from that
he was fairly comfortable; there was straw, not fresh but not soiled, dim light, warmth, and the unmistakable smell of horse dung. If he was in a stable, he didn't want to know about it. Horses were not his favorite animals.

  Memories filtered through his mind. How could he have been so foolish as to have stabbed Madame Thornypurse? Where was his brain? And then, suddenly anxious: where was his sack? Nabber opened his eyes immediately and looked around in the straw. No sign of it and, to make matters worse, he was in a stable. Wooden stalls rose up about him and various tack, bits, bridles, and other baffling horsy things, hung from nails like holy relics. And there! Horses blowing and nickering.

  As he tried to stand up, pain shot through his shoulder. His left arm wasn't responding the way it should; it hung limply at his side, the upper tendons badly strained. Everything came back to him: the knife-man, the blade to his throat, Tawl to the rescue. With his good arm he felt his throat. It was bandaged, and something that smelled bad, which probably meant it was doing good, was smeared on either side of the cloth.

  The stall door opened and in walked Tawl. Nabber had only seen him from the back the day before so he was shocked at the change in the knight's appearance. His skin was pale and dark hollows surrounded his eyes. "How are you feeling?" he asked, placing various pots and packages down on the floor.

  Nabber only had one thought on his mind. "Where's my sack?"

  "Must be back at Thornypurse's." Rather firmly, Tawl took Nabber by the shoulders and forced him to sit back down again. "Your left arm is out of the socket."

  "We've got to go back and get my sack. There's a fortune in gold inside it."

  Tawl ignored what he said, closed his hand about Nabber's wrist, and then pulled sharply. With his other hand, the knight forced the joint back into the socket.

  Nabber screamed loudly at this indignity. The pain was excruciating. His vision blurred and his head started reeling. Still, his thoughts were on his sack. "My contingency's gone. It took me months to ... Aagh!" he cried as an arm's length of muscle protested at being moved. Wisely, he decided to let the newly fixed limb rest at his side. "Took me months to build that contingency. We've got to get it back."

  Tawl shook his head. "You're not going back there."

  "Well, you go, then."

  "If I ever decide to go back there, it will be on my own business, not yours." A hard edge to the knight's voice stopped Nabber from pressing further. He tried a different approach instead.

  "They were poisoning you."

  "Yes. I thought so after I was sick two days in a row."

  "Blayze put them up to it."

  Tawl seemed tired, almost disinterested. "Makes sense. Though I doubt if he intended Thornypurse to nearly kill me. It wouldn't look so good-him beating a man who can barely stand."

  For the first time, Nabber realized that Tawl was ill. Here he was acting like a big baby over a sore arm and a flesh wound, while the knight had probably been given enough poison to kill a brothelful of whores.

  "Here," said Tawl, handing him a freshly baked loaf. "Eat this, it will help keep your strength up."

  "What about you, the poison?"

  "I'll be all right. I caught it before it was too late." Nabber was skeptical. "How can you be sure?"

  The knight looked down, intent on unwrapping the bundles. At first, Nabber didn't think he was going to reply. Then after a moment he spoke. His voice was quiet, and he never once lifted his gaze from the floor. "I learned about poisons at Valdis. How to identify them, how to treat their effects. Thornypurse gave me hemlock: a mistake only a novice would make. A thumbnail of leaf can kill a man, and Blayze wanted me weakened, not dead."

  "I knew there was something wrong the next morning." Tawl shrugged. "At Valdis you learn to monitor your body closely. I felt something eating away at my stomach, so I readied some charcoal and swallowed it."

  "Swallowed charcoal!" Nabber was disgusted.

  Tawl managed a smile. "When it's prepared right, it forces a man to expel the contents of his stomach."

  Nabber nodded. "I heard you throwing up, all right, if that's what you mean."

  "I was rid of the poison before it was too late. Another debt I owe to Valdis." The knight raised a hunk of bread to his lips, but didn't bite off any. He put it down untouched.

  Nabber noticed how badly his arms were shaking. The fact that Tawl had somehow managed to carry him from the brothel seemed nothing short of a miracle. "Anyway, it looks like Blayze will end up with what he wants: a vulnerable opponent."

  "You can't mean you're still going to fight him?" Nabber was horrified. "The fight's only two days away. You're in no fit state to-"

  "You're not my keeper, boy," said Tawl. "I gave my word and I'll keep it."

  There was no way Nabber could let this happen. The knight wouldn't stand a chance against the duke's champion. Blayze was fit and healthy, with muscles like a prize bull, whereas Tawl looked ready for the sickbed. It was suicide! This was one of those rare moments when the truth was called for. Nabber took a deep breath. "Look, I'll go to Blayze and tell him the deal's off. I was the one who got Madame Thornypurse to drag you to the meeting in the first place. It was all my idea." He squirmed in readiness for a verbal thrashing.

  Tawl's voice was gentle. "It makes no difference now, Nabber. What has been agreed upon cannot be undone."

  A strong wave of guilt hit Nabber just when he though he was free of it, as well. "But you could get killed."

  "Better to die than risk dishonor." Tawl seemed to regret his words the moment they left his mouth. Abruptly, he stood up. "Eat your food and get some rest. I'll be back before dark."

  "I think you're the one who needs rest."

  Tawl opened the door. "I need a lot of things, Nabber, but right now I'll make do with a drink." The knight dropped the latch and left Nabber alone in the hay.

  Bailor, head of the duke's household, sat in the most comfortable room in the duke's palace: his own. For seventeen years now, ever since His Grace had come to power, it had not been considered fashionable to have chambers more luxurious than the duke. This had proven rather difficult for the court to, bear, as the duke was an austere man with more liking for simplicity than sophistication.

  Though he didn't mind the show of it. Indeed, the palace itself was more magnificent than ever: two beautiful new courtyards, a domed ceiling, fountains, and stained glass. The building of beautiful distractions had served to conceal the building of greater fortifications. Arrow loops had been recut to run lengthwise, square towers were pulled down and round ones built in their place. All the roofs had been raised to a slope and the crenellations along the battlements had been shuttered with iron. Yes, the duke was a man of simple tastes: invasion and protection.

  And women.

  Bailor stood up and went over to the window. It was shuttered with wood, but hinges were currently being cast that were strong enough to take the weight of metal sheets.

  The ladies would not like those. Not that the ladies counted in Bren.

  It was time to do business. Bailor had noticed of late that the duke grew rapidly bored of the women that were brought to him. They were all beautiful-a few exquisitely so-most to some degree cultured, and every one of them was young and willing. Now, normally Bailor wouldn't mind His Grace's short attention span; after all, what the duke finished with one day was his the next, but the man was becoming irritable, blaming him for picking women with no life, no intelligence. What did His Grace expect? He had neither the time nor inclination to bother with wooings and clandestine affairs. He simply wanted to bed a woman and have done with it; yet he still expected, indeed demanded, that these women be fine and cultured like the ladies of the court.

  Bailor spent a good part of every day searching for such women. He had contacts in. Camlee, Annis, and Highwall, knew flesh-traders from Tyro and Chelss, was friends with impoverished nobles with young daughters, and had spies in all the convents. Everything he had-his high position, his fine rooms, his well-sto
cked coffers, and his wideranging responsibilities--depended solely on his ability to find women for the duke.

  Daughters of the high nobility would not go near the man. The risk to their precious reputations was too great: the duke had never been known to compensate a girl for her shame. Of course, the truly difficult part was ensuring that these women were virgins. The duke insisted on that above anything else.

  Altogether it made for a difficult task, but one that the head of the duke's household would never dream of relinquishing to another. It formed the foundation of his power base.

  Bailor had started young: carrying love notes between lovers as a boy. One day a certain young lady of high birth had pleaded with him for his help. She was in love, but her feelings were not returned. She was desperate, cried prettily and was willing to pay. Five golds it cost her for the love potion. Such substances were frowned upon in Bren as the devil's handiwork and no decent woman dared to use them. He'd never looked back. Drugs, potions, erotica, young women, and young boys: he could get anything for anybody. The court depended on him and paid handsomely for his silence.

  Quickly, Bailor shrugged off the silk he wore around his chambers and donned the wool and linen expected of a man of his ranking. He had learned long ago that not only was it wise to appear modest, but it made for better bargaining, as well.

  He made his way down to the small reception room he called his own. It was as sparse as his private rooms were sumptuous. A man was waiting for him. A deformed and ugly cripple: Fiscel the flesh-trader.

  "No need to get up, my friend," he said, repulsed at the sight of the man struggling from a chair. "How are you this day?"

  "I am well. The pass was smooth." Tiny drops of spittle sprayed over the desk. Bailor resisted the urge to draw his hand away.

  "What have you for me today? A girl from Annis, perhaps?" Of all the northern cities, Annis had the reputation for the most beautiful women.