A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "No, from the kingdoms." Fiscel's high voice grated upon Bailor's nerves,

  "Women from the kingdoms are plain and bad tempered."

  "Not this one, she's a beauty. Court trained, too."

  "A nobleman's daughter?"

  Fiscel nodded. "A nobleman's bastard."

  "Well, bring her in, then." The head of the duke's household was becoming impatient.

  "Come now, Bailor. You know I like to set a minimum before I let you see the goods."

  "How much?"

  Fiscel leaned back in his chair. "Five hundred golds."

  "Don't be ridiculous. There's no way I can guarantee that as a minimum." It was an outrageous price, three times what was normally asked.

  The flesh-trader's hand closed about his walking stick as he braced himself to stand. "Very well, then. I will take my business elsewhere."

  Bailor's interest was now piqued. He couldn't let the man leave without seeing the woman who could command such a minimum. Putting an arm on the man's shoulder, he said, "There's no rush, my friend. Stay and take a cup of wine."

  "Like you, Bailor, I don't drink during negotiations." Both men had each other's measure.

  "Three hundred golds," said Bailor, "and I'll see her this instant."

  "Five hundred golds or you'll see her not at all."

  This was not the way negotiations normally went. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost control. Damn Fiscel! The truth was that he now desperately wanted to see the girl.

  Perhaps this one might engage the duke's interest longer than a week. "Four hundred, then. That's my final offer."

  "Then this is my final refusal." Fiscel's good eye gleamed with cunning. "Look, Bailor, you and I have known each other for many years. Would I demand such a price without first being sure of the value of my goods?"

  "Very well, five hundred minimum, but I don't promise I'll purchase."

  Fiscel stood up. "You'll purchase."

  Alysha's long and elegant fingers bit into her flesh like talons. Not once had she loosened her grip since they'd entered the palace. Melli hated the woman. She had spent hours this morning being scrubbed and plucked like a pheasant for the table; there was a new dress, ribbons for her hair, and pearls for wrist and throat. Alysha had been merciless; coarse brushes, tweezers, toothpicks, and caustic ointments were her instruments of torture.

  Fiscel was returning. The sight of him limping across the courtyard sent a tremor of apprehension up Melli's spine. Alysha's grip became tighter, and she was forced forward to meet him.

  "Did he agree to the minimum?" Alysha's voice betrayed uncharacteristic concern.

  Fiscel was out of breath. He leaned heavily on his stick. "Yes, Follow me. We must display while the man is still curious."

  Display! Melli did not like the sound of this one bit. She stood her ground and refused to be moved. They were in one of the palace courtyards and a few noblemen were walking around the shrubs and fountains. She could shout to them, tell them that she was a nobleman's daughter and demand that they help her. Only she was a long way from home and the name Maybor would mean nothing to people of Bren. Even if it did, Melli couldn't be sure that her father wouldn't just disown her.

  She was trapped. Fiscel and Alysha watched her constantly. She hadn't been allowed out of the wagon for over a week. Everything, including using the chamberpot, had to be done in full view of Alysha's sly and smiling face. At first Melli had been on her guard, looking for chances to run away, constantly feeling for her knife, but no opportunities occurred and gradually her watchfulness was replaced with planning. Melli had given a lot of thought to escape, and she had decided that her best option was to wait until she was sold. The man who bought her would get no interest on his investment. She would be gone before he could lay a hand upon her.

  At least that was the plan up until a few hours ago. When they entered Bren late last night, she hadn't expected to be taken to the duke's palace. Escaping from here was not going to be easy. It looked open enough-servants coming and going, courtiers strolling about-yet guards were posted on every corner and the portcullis smelled of newly rubbed oil.

  Alysha's grip bit to the bone and Melli stepped forward. As they crossed the castle grounds, people turned to stare at them, and many a knowing look was flashed their way. Eventually they came to a small wooden doorway just past the entrance to the kitchens. Fiscel turned abruptly and raised his stick to Melli's chest.

  "One smart word out of you, my precious, and I'll beat your ribs to splinters." And then to Alysha: "You stay here." Melli was pushed through the doorway, Fiscel following behind. They entered a small cramped room that was lit by four candles. A plump man, plainly dressed, sat behind a wooden table.

  "Here she is, Bailor. Did I overestimate her charms?" The stranger stood up, his face registering no emotion. He caught hold of Melli's arm and drew her toward the light of the candles. Dressed plainly he might be, but he smelled of expensive oils. Melli tried hard to keep calm during the scrutiny. Strangely, it helped that the man didn't seem too impressed by her. If he'd been smiling and gloating, it would have been a different matter.

  After a while, the man turned to Fiscel. "I'll take her," he said.

  The flesh-trader licked a speckle of drool from his lips. "Aah, but we haven't agreed to a price."

  "Five hundred was the price." Judging by the man's voice, Melli realized that he was more than a common servant.

  "Five hundred was the minimum," corrected Fiscel. "We both know she is worth more than that." He contemplated the knotted end of his stick. "Say, eight hundred."

  "This is ridiculous, you know I'm not authorized to pay such an amount, His Grace-"

  "Save your breath, Bailor," interrupted Fiscel. "You're not bargaining with some local brothel-keeper now. You can pay, we both know it."

  Melli's hand. rubbed against the bodice of her dress. The knife still sang beneath. Amidst all this madness, nothing seemed as sane as the blade. Fiscel would get his way, she did not doubt it. She should be pleased; here was a chance to rid herself of the abominable twosome and finally escape. Why then were her hands shaking and her legs so weak they could hardly bear her weight?

  "Very well, Fiscel," the man was saying. "I'll take her for eight." He looked Melli up and down one final time. "Are you sure she's a virgin?"

  Now the deal was done, Fiscel was at his most humble. He bowed profusely and the good half of his mouth came close to a smile. "She was tested by my girl, Alysha, who's from the Far South."

  This explanation seemed to satisfy the man. Obviously women of the Far South were famous for more than just duplicity and facial hair.

  The man left the room, closing the door behind him. "Made a handsome profit out of me, didn't you?" Melli realized she now had nothing to fear from Fiscel. "If I were you, I'd take it straight to a surgeon and ask him to sew up the slack side of your mouth."

  The flesh-trader grabbed hold of her hair. He pulled on it so forcefully that Melli's neck snapped back. "If you try and run away from here, I swear I will hunt you down and slay you." There was a world of malice in Fiscel's good eye.

  Melli pulled away from him, hardly caring if she left a fistful of hair behind. She looked at him coldly, and said, "What makes you so sure I won't do the same to you?"

  The door opened again and Melli turned her back as the gold changed hands. The true magnitude of what was happening to her was beginning to sink in. The two men in this room were buying and selling her! She, Maybor's daughter, once promised to a prince, had been bargained for like a bolt of Marls' silk. Running away from Castle Harvell had proven fruitless, for here she was, hundreds of leagues to the east, in a city she had no knowledge of, in a position a thousand times more degrading than being married against her will.

  "Farewell, my precious." It was Fiscel, acting the part of a benevolent patron. "I trust you will remember my advice."

  "Don't worry, Fiscel," said Melli, "I will never forget a single thing you said or did to me."


  The flesh-trader sent her a warning glance, but Melli didn't deign to acknowledge it. The moment the door was closed, she turned to the stranger. "So, who paid a king's ransom for me?"

  The man smiled; he seemed relieved to be rid of Fiscel. "Why, you are honored, my dear. You will be sent to His Grace."

  Melli was confused. His Grace was a title usually given to younger brothers of kings, yet in Bren there was no king ... only a duke. Comprehension dawned, and the stranger nodded in delight.

  "Yes, my dear, you belong to the duke of Bren." Gently, he took her hand. Melli was almost glad of it. The shock of hearing she had been purchased by the most powerful man in the north had sent her head reeling. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Bailor, head of the duke's household. And what is your name?"

  "Melli." She leaned against him for support. This seemed to please him and he patted her arm gently.

  "Melli from where?"

  "Deepwood. Melli of Deepwood."

  "Aah." The syllable was hung with doubt. "Well, Melli of Deepwood, as long as you're good and do what I tell you, your stay here will be a pleasure for both of us." A slight leer spoiled Bailor's attempt at pleasantry. "Now, I'll show you to your room and let you have a little rest." Melli was relieved. For the first time in many days, she would finally be alone.

  "So, Your Grace, when do you intend to set a marriage date?" Baralis brought the cup to his lips, but no wine met his tongue. They were in the duke's chambers, a sparse set of rooms with no rugs to cushion the stone, nor linen to soften the light. Baralis was determined to have answers. He was not prepared to let the Hawk circle cautiously any longer. It was time he came to land.

  "The betrothal has not yet been finalized." The duke didn't even bother with the pretense of drinking. His cup lay untouched on the table.

  "The betrothal can be formalized by proxy. We can settle this matter here and now." Baralis altered the tone of his voice, mixing grit with the oil. "Unless you care to ignore your court's affirmation of the match."

  The duke stood up and pulled his sword from his belt. He drew the blade to the light and began to examine the edge. "Quite a politician, aren't you, Baralis? But here in Bren we value strength, not smoothness of tongue."

  "In the kingdoms we value straight answers."

  To Baralis' surprise, the duke seemed pleased with this retort. He put down his sword and then swung around. "Well, seeing you value straight answers, you might like to give me one. It is true that Kylock is planning a new offensive on Halcus?"

  Baralis cursed Maybor. Yesterday they both received messages from the kingdoms, and it appeared that the man had wasted no time telling the duke about Kylock's intentions. "So the king is seeking to strengthen his borders. What is wrong with that?"

  "It sounded more like an invasion," said the duke, cool as ever, "than a simple border defense."

  "Who can blame Kylock for wanting the border dispute to be settled once and for all? It's raged for over five years now. He wants to present his new bride with a country both prosperous and secure."

  "A fine sentiment, Baralis."

  "Catherine will be a queen, Your Grace."

  "Would you have her an empress, too?"

  There it was: the heart of the matter. How much did the Hawk suspect? And if he did guess at the plan for a northern empire, how willing was he to go along with it?

  Baralis decided it was wise to back away from the subject. The duke was not the sort of man to be fooled by fine words of glory. "Whenever two powers join as one, there is always a risk of what is created being called an empire."

  The duke drew his thin lips to an even thinner line. "Before I set a marriage date, certain stipulations need to be agreed upon."

  Baralis did not permit himself even the tiniest show of relief at the duke's apparent willingness to drop such a dangerous subject. "Those are matters for the lawyers, Your Grace."

  "Surely you and I can decide upon a few things among ourselves, King's Chancellor." The use of his title was almost a challenge.

  Although wary, Baralis had little choice but to ask: "What things, Your Grace?"

  "Timber and grain tributes to start with, and then perhaps you could give me a written guarantee that the resources of Bren will be used in no war that is not of our own making." The duke smiled, his first of the meeting. "Your powers of proxy can surely cover these little details."

  The duke was shrewd. Asking for timber and grain tributes was nothing short of blackmail. It also gave him something tangible to show to his people-a direct benefit of the match. As for the other matter-a written guarantee-well, he could have one. Who would be around to enforce it once His Grace had died a painful death? "What level of resources do you require?"

  "I realize it's difficult to transport grain and timber over the mountains, so I will limit the tribute to three times a year. Say, five thousand bushels of grain and nine hundred weight of timber."

  Baralis brought his cup to his lips and actually swallowed. The amount the duke was asking was too high. "I agree," he said. Nothing was going to prevent this marriage from taking place.

  "And the guarantee?"

  "I will have it drawn up by the morrow."

  "Good," said the duke. "I think that's everything, so I will let you take your leave. You may consider the betrothal formalized."

  A young girl, ravishing to behold, with hair red and pale skin, entered the room. She saw the two talking and quickly left. Before she closed the door, Baralis spied a large bed in the adjoining room.

  "And the marriage date?"

  "Let's wait and see the ink upon the paper before we engrave the date in stone."

  Baralis was becoming impatient. "Keep the groom waiting too long and ardor might cool."

  "Push the bride too quickly and she might frighten and run away." The duke came and stood beside him. "I will give you a date within the month. Now, I have other matters to see to." He bowed slightly."I trust you will come and watch my champion fight the night after tomorrow. 'Tis put on in your honor."

  "Of course, it will be interesting to see the best that Bren has to offer."

  "You won't be disappointed," said the duke.

  Tavalisk was eating brains. An overrated dish that required a lot of sauce to make palatable. The archbishop was his own cook today, and he suspected the brains were slightly overdone, for he'd been chewing the last piece for several minutes and it still wasn't ready to swallow.

  He hated fast days. The Church recognized about forty fasts a year. They were supposed to cleanse the spirit, elevate the mind, and expunge the body. In reality, they just drove everyone to sin. Only prisoners and zealots fasted on holy days. But, as in everything, appearances had to be kept up; the kitchens were deserted, the butcher's blocks were dry, and behind shuttered windows a city full of people ate furtively in the dark.

  Tavalisk glanced over to his lyre. Yesterday, in a fit of temper, he'd stepped on it. The action, while producing his best ever note, had sadly flattened the instrument, rendering it unplayable. The tambourine had met a similar, but slightly more rewarding end, and his cat was now limping because of it. He'd finally given up on music. Food had tempted like a courtesan, and music's charms had paled under its lure.

  In walked Gamil without as much as a knock. The man was getting above himself. "Your Eminence, the rumors are true."

  "What rumors, Gamil? Rorn has enough of them to set a fishwife whispering for a year." Tavalisk seasoned the brains in the pot. "Talking of fishwives, how's your dear mother?"

  "Long dead, Your Eminence."

  The archbishop fished out a portion of brain and tested it between his fingers. "Good, good. Give her my regards."

  "Lesketh is dead. Kylock is now king."

  Tavalisk dropped the brain back into the pot. "Fair or foul?"

  "By all accounts, Your Eminence, the poor man died in his sleep."

  "Foul, then." The archbishop poured himself a cup of wine. "Now when Catherine marries Kylock it will be a true joining of pow
ers. Two such well-positioned points from which to dominate the north. Baralis is a clever dog, I'll give him that."

  "How can you be so sure that is his plan, Your Eminence?"

  "Marod predicted it, Gamil: When two mighty powers join as one." Tavalisk took a long draught of wine. "We are witnessing the birth of the dark empire."

  "What can we do to prevent it from happening, Your Eminence?"

  "More than you think, Gamil. There is nothing more vulnerable than a newborn." The archbishop stirred the pot. "We can get the knights in trouble for one thing, make friends in Bren for another, and most importantly we can alert the other northern powers to Baralis' ambitions-perhaps even offer our support if it's needed."

  "But I don't understand how stirring trouble with the knights will aid your cause."

  "Our cause, Gamil," corrected Tavalisk. "Unless of course you fancy living in a world were there is no Church to pay your salary." Tavalisk was feeling rather smug.

  "I don't understand, Your Eminence."

  The archbishop shook his head sadly. "Oh, Gamil, you do disappoint me. You've obviously never read Marod's Book of Words. According to him, the dark empire will bring with it the end of the Church. `The temples will fall,' he said." Tavalisk looked quickly at his aide. That was quite enough for the moment; he'd let Gamil chew a little before giving him the full meal. "As for the knights, those hypocrites are in with the duke of Bren. Some of them even fought in his last skirmish: the massacre at Luncom. That pathetic little town paid dearly for its attempt at independence."

  Tavalisk speared a portion of gray matter and dipped it into the garlic butter. With so many convoluted loops and folds, brains were made for sauce. "Goading Tyren is our best way to get the south interested in what's happening in the north. The knights are aggressively pursuing our trade, and the duke is helping them all the way. If Bren becomes more powerful then so, by association, do the knights."

  The archbishop took the pan off the heat. The brains were now so tough that they'd be put to better use on the hull of a battleship. "Anyway, how is our four-city force doing? Slain any knights yet?"

  "No, Your Eminence."