The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

  Banished from the stableyard with instructions that for once he was to enjoy his half day and spend some of his hard-earned coins, at first Josan wandered the streets of Utika aimlessly. He knew the town fairly well, although he could not say the same for the townspeople. There were many he recognized by sight, and a number who knew him as Myles’s servant. But none were particularly friendly, and he could not imagine conversing with any of them. His employment barred him from associating with those who would normally have been his equals, and even other servants avoided him for fear of being tainted by association.

  Which was as well, he supposed. He had too many secrets to guard to risk friendship. Even if it meant that on an afternoon such as this, he had no one to turn to, to help him pass the empty hours.

  Strange how he had never felt this loneliness when he was on the island. There weeks had passed without his seeing another soul, and nonetheless Josan had been content.

  Of course, back then he had had a purpose, a duty, and a firm sense of who he was. Now he had none of these things. Instead there was a vast emptiness inside him, an aching hollowness that could be filled neither by his assumed role nor by the company of others. He was a fraud, a shell of a man, and it was a wonder that others had not seen through him.

  These bitter reflections were precisely what he had been trying to avoid with his frantic labors, but even that respite had been denied him. Josan’s steps slowed, and as the rain began once more to fall in earnest, he ducked inside a nearby wine shop.

  Inside the taverna it was so dim he could hardly see, the low ceilings and tiny windows reinforcing the impression of a small cave. The stone floor was slick with mud tracked in by the patrons, and the air was filled with the stench of smoke, wet wool, and the faint scent of blood. The last puzzled him, until he remembered that the taverna was adjacent to the butchers’ district, and the patrons must have brought the scent of their own labors with them.

  He wondered if his own clothes and boots carried the smell of horseshit, then shrugged. If they did, this was hardly a place where anyone would complain. Picking his way carefully across the floor, he made his way to an unoccupied bench. A flash of bright copper brought him a jug of red wine, along with a wine cup and a pitcher of water.

  There was a ritual to wine pouring, a style that hovered at the edge of his memory and called for his attention. He ignored the thought, and instead poured the wine into the cup carelessly, letting it slop against the sides. Eschewing the water—for no doubt the shop had already watered it heavily—he took a deep gulp.

  The wine was bitter, the taste so dark as to be nearly gritty. He could almost taste the crushed grape skins on his tongue and wondered what people were so barbarous that they did not think to strain the wine before storing.

  The same people that sold a jug of wine for an imperial copper, to men whose taste buds could barely determine the difference between old wine and new. It was not that the wine was primitive, but rather that Josan was remembering a time when he had drunk perfectly aged wine out of crystal goblets, when each sip had been a new revelation of taste and refinement.

  But even that memory rang false as he considered it. True the brethren did not drink swill, but neither were they known to indulge in worldly luxuries such as rare wines or crystal goblets. This memory, too, was not his own.

  He emptied his cup and filled it again. This time he forced his mind clear of all other thoughts, almost as if he was meditating, concentrating on this cup of wine as if he had never before drunk the red wine of the northern provinces. Slowly he drank, but when his cup was empty, he conceded defeat. He could still feel the Other, roused to awareness, hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

  It had been a mistake to come in here and let strong wine dull his wits. Josan stood, tossing a copper to the servingwoman, who would no doubt sell his unfinished jug of wine to the next patron. With his hood tugged over his head to protect him from the chill rain, his steps turned inevitably toward the stable. Myles had ordered him to stay away for a full afternoon, but it was better to face Myles’s wrath than to risk having the Other surface in a public setting.

  When he returned he saw two men leaving the stableyard. Their high boots and long cloaks proclaimed them to be travelers, and as he drew near, he saw the vague outlines of short swords under their much-patched cloaks. He felt a faint prickle of unease, wondering what business such men could have with Myles. Their boots were made for walking, not riding, and by their appearance they could not afford to hire a horse. When he drew abreast with them, their eyes widened.

  Both men were of mixed blood, with dark brown stubble on their faces from days without shaving. They were young, barely out of boyhood, but that did not make them any less dangerous.

  “Greetings of the day to you,” he said.

  He was not surprised when they did not respond, studiously ignoring him after that first glance. He should have felt comforted by their disregard, for clearly they had recognized him as a servant. One with nothing to steal, a man not even worth a polite greeting.

  And yet his unease deepened as he paused at the paddock gate, watching as the two men continued down the street until they turned off into an alley. Only then did he turn his back on them and make his way into the stables.

  Myles was standing next to his office at the front of the stables.

  “I told you to stay away for the afternoon,” Myles growled. His cheeks were flushed with anger, either from this morning’s quarrel or Josan’s early return, or perhaps both. “It is still light, or had you not noticed?”

  Josan shrugged. “It is dark enough, with all these clouds.”

  It was a poor excuse, but he could hardly tell the truth. Perhaps if he made himself scarce, it would give Myles’s temper a chance to cool.

  Removing his cloak, he ran his fingers through his short hair, flicking off the raindrops that had gathered. “What did those men want? The two who just left here?”

  Myles frowned, and for a long moment Josan thought that his master was too angry to answer.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. They wanted work, but I had none to give them.”

  “But—”

  They had looked hungry, yes, but not the type to stoop to common labor. They had seemed more like those who turned to robbery when all else failed.

  “Don’t worry, your job is safe enough for now,” Myles said, misinterpreting the source of Josan’s unease. “Though if you plague me again, I may reconsider.”

  Josan drew a breath, then let it out slowly. He could not afford to quarrel with Myles, not when all he had was a vague feeling that the two men intended harm.

  “If you do not need me, I will take myself off to rest. I drank more than I intended, and the wine has gone to my head.”

  “Go,” Myles said, and he retreated to his office.

  Thus dismissed, Josan made his way to the rear of the stables and climbed the ladder that led to his hayloft. He had not lied to Myles. In a way the wine had gone to his head, though mercifully he no longer felt the Other stirring. A few hours of sleep that afternoon would help him stay awake later. If the strangers intended mischief, they would return after dark. And Josan would be ready for them.

  “Wake up, damn you, wake up,” a voice growled in his ear.

  “’m wake,” Josan muttered.

  His eyes firmly shut, he tried to roll over to grasp a few more moments of sleep, but the voice was having none of it. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  “Wake up,” the voice ordered.

  Josan opened his eyes and sat up. He shook his head to clear it, but this proved a mistake, for a wave of nausea swept over him. The same hands that had so rudely disturbed his sleep held him steady as he squeezed his eyes shut once more against the sickness in his gut and the pounding ache of his head.

  “Stay with me,” the voice ordered, and, as his wits returned to him, he recognized the speaker as Myles.

 
Once more he opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He was on the floor of the stables, just inside the double doors. The scene was dim, illuminated only by the customary lantern that burned at night, but he could see the concern in Myles’s face and hear the horses moving restlessly in their stalls, complaining over whatever had disturbed their rest.

  The bitter taste of nausea mixed with fear as he realized that his last memories were of climbing the ladder to his loft. He had intended a short rest, so he could stay on guard during the night. After that there was nothing.

  If the Other had surfaced, as Josan dreaded, then there was no telling what the demon might have done while in control of Josan’s body.

  “What happened?”

  Seemingly convinced that Josan was not about to pass out, Myles relinquished his hold. He did not answer at once, but instead his gaze traveled to where two dim shapes lay on the floor not far away.

  His legs would not support him, but Josan managed to crawl the short distance. Even before he reached them, he knew what he would find. As he approached, the unrecognizable shapes resolved themselves into the figures of two men. The strangers from earlier that day, now lying dead on the stable floor. Now the ache in his head made sense, as did the tightness in his chest that told of one or more broken ribs. His hands were sticky, and he knew if he looked at them closely, he would see blood. Blood that was not his own.

  “Robbers,” Myles said, coming to stand beside him. “You must have surprised them.”

  A comforting tale, but the evidence did not fit. Josan summoned his strength and climbed to his feet. Ignoring Myles, he crossed back to the front of the stable and lit the spare lantern. Holding the lantern before him, he looked around. The office door was closed, the bar on the granary door still lowered, and the stall doors firmly locked.

  Returning to the two bodies, he knelt beside them. From the scuff marks on the floor he could see that they had been dragged there after they had fallen, their short swords placed neatly at their feet. Heedless of his aching ribs, he knelt once more. So close, the signs of death were hard to ignore—the stench of blood and shit and the open eyes staring at him in endless surprise.

  Placing the lantern on the floor beside him, he grasped the left forearm of the first man and pushed up his sleeve. Carefully he inspected it, but there was no telltale tattoo. He repeated the procedure with the man’s right arm, then with the second man.

  Neither bore the rebel’s tattoo, but that did not mean that he could accept Myles’s explanation. Robbers would have come prepared to steal one or more of the valuable horses, but there was no sign of halter or tack.

  Nor did it explain their deaths. Josan had never intended to face them alone. Two armed men against an unarmed man was suicide, no matter what strange skills lay in Josan’s past. Josan had thought no further than to alert Myles to the danger and let him summon the watch.

  But instead two men had died, and apparently at his hand.

  “Robbers,” Josan repeated.

  “So it seems. You must have annoyed them, for I heard the racket and decided to investigate. When I saw them they were dragging you out of the barn. Lucky for both of us that they had no idea how to use those swords they wore, for I was able to put them down with barely a scratch.”

  “You? You killed them?”

  Myles puffed out his chest. “I was a soldier, you remember?”

  “Of course.”

  He had not meant to offend; rather, he had been so convinced of his own guilt that he had not considered any other possibilities.

  But while Myles’s explanation offered the comfort of knowing that he had not killed them, it was troubling in another way. The men who had died had not been trying to steal horses or coin. They had seized Josan. If he had interrupted their robbery, then they would have simply killed him. Instead they had knocked him unconscious, then tried to kidnap him.

  Were they opportunists, seeking the bounty that must now be on the head of the so-called killer monk? Or were they somehow connected to the assassin who had tried to kill him so many long months ago? In either case, he had Myles to thank for his life.

  “I am in your debt,” he said.

  Myles shifted his weight on his feet, seemingly discomfited by the simple statement of truth.

  “Are you strong enough to lend a hand?” Myles asked.

  Josan nodded.

  “Good, then go and get the manure cart from the back.”

  “What?”

  “The manure cart.” Myles blew out a breath. “We have to get rid of these two before the sun rises.”

  “But the magistrate—”

  “The magistrate is Florek’s cousin. He has been scrupulous in his observance of the law so far, but I do not want to give him an excuse to throw me in jail.” Myles looked over at him. “And I assume that you cannot afford to speak with him either. So we’ll take care of this ourselves, agreed?”

  Myles knew that Josan was not who he said he was. He felt dizzy, as this latest shock piled on top of the others he had experienced this night. It was too much to take in, so Josan simply said, “I’ll get the cart.”

  As he stepped outside, he saw the clear stars above him. The rain had stopped, and he knew the coming day would be fine. The horses would enjoy the chance to spend time in the paddock, and he could give their stalls the thorough cleaning they deserved.

  Then he laughed as he realized the absurdity of his thoughts. Two men had been killed, and whether their deaths were justified or not, his life was once again about to change. He would not be here to clean the stalls. He had been a fool to let himself grow comfortable, for it had taken only moments for his refuge to be destroyed. Once more his life had been in danger, and he was no closer to finding out why.

  He could not wait to find his answers. Caution had availed him nothing. He would have to risk Brother Nikos’s wrath and return to Karystos.

  But first he had to help Myles erase the evidence of what had been done here. In helping Josan, Myles had risked far more than he knew. Myles’s hand had wielded the sword, but it seemed clear that it had been Josan’s presence that drew the men, and thus Josan bore the responsibility for their deaths.

  Returning with the manure cart, he saw that Myles had already stripped the bodies. The wounds, which had looked bad enough when hidden by clothing, gaped obscenely. One man had been skewered through from front to back, apparently taken by surprise. The second had had time to fight. He had bled from cuts on his arms, and a nasty wound to his thigh, before a final stab through the belly. Even as Josan watched, the body of the second man gave a faint twitch.

  He was not dead. Despite everything, the man was not dead. What would they do? What would he say if he lived long enough to talk to the magistrate?

  Josan stood there, frozen in horror, but Myles had no such compunctions. He placed his large hand over the man’s mouth and nose, pressing down until the body gave one last spasm, then lay still.

  This had been murder. Death done not in the heat of combat, but a cold-blooded killing. It could be argued that Myles had acted out of mercy, for the man’s wounds ensured that his future held nothing but a long, lingering death. But he knew Myles had not killed him out of mercy. Myles had killed him because he needed silence.

  It seemed Myles had secrets of his own, and Josan did not know whether to be grateful or to curse the fates that had brought them together.

  At Myles’s direction, he lined the cart with two old horse blankets. Then he took the arms of the victim whose body was still warm, and Myles took his legs. They loaded him in the cart, folding his body in half to make it fit. Josan steeled himself to the gruesome task, even as the nausea once more welled up inside him.

  Who are you? a voice in his head demanded. Can you still maintain the pretense that you are a monk if you do these things? He ignored the voice and returned to help Myles pick up the second body. This one, too, was folded, crammed in next to his comrade. A final blanket was spr
ead over them both to disguise their gruesome load.

  It took both of them, one on each handle, to move the cart out into the alley that ran behind the stables and down its length. The creak of the wheels on the hard-packed gravel seemed impossibly loud to his ears, and with every step he waited for the inevitable discovery. But they reached their destination unmolested: a narrow track behind a taverna that was known to cater to the lowest of the low. Rats scurried away as they unloaded the two bodies facedown into the mud.

  Josan wanted to argue against the disrespect, but it seemed foolish to protest. Silently they made the trip back to the stables. Only when they were once more inside, with the door barred behind them, did Myles give a sigh of relief.

  “The watch will find them, or the taverna owner, and assume they were victims of a robbery or a brawl,” he said. “There will be nothing to connect them to us.”

  “The blankets? Their clothes?”

  “We’ll burn the lot tomorrow, along with a pile of straw that has gone moldy.”

  “What straw?” He knew he had not neglected any of his tasks.

  “The straw that you were too lazy to turn, and has now gone moldy from all this rain,” Myles said. “I’ll complain loudly of course, but that will be the end of it.”

  Clearly Myles had given this careful thought, even as Josan’s own wits went begging. He wondered if this was the first time Myles had had to dispose of an inconvenient body but could think of no polite way to ask. You did not accuse the man who had just saved your life of being a killer.

  Even if it was true.

  Myles looked around. “Come. Tomorrow will be soon enough to scrub the floors.”

  Josan did not move.

  “Come.” There was steel in Myles’s voice, so Josan roused himself to follow. Myles led him across the stableyard to the adjacent stone house where he lived. The house was close enough so that the owner could keep an eye on the stables, but if the commotion had been loud enough to wake Myles, it was a wonder that their neighbors had not come running as well.