A Man Betrayed (10 page)

Melli heard the
scuttle of a cockroach. As a child she'd been afraid of them. It was considered
becoming for a lady to make a pretty show of terror whenever an insect was
spotted.

Young girls even
went so far as to
choose
a specific insect that they simply could not
bear the sight of. The smaller and more pathetic the insect, the more refined
the lady. Melli stomped on the creature with her foot. Judging from the
substantial cracking noise, it must have been a big one.

The door opened
again. What next, she thought, a five-course dinner? A man stepped into the
doorway; he was haloed by the light. The creaking of leathers told her what her
eyes could not see: it was the captain.

"I hope my
men are treating you well," he said. "About as well as a farmer
treats his prize heifer."

The captain
laughed and stepped into the room. "Borc, 'tis cold in here. Have they
refused you blankets?"

"I never asked."

"By my leave,
you are a proud wench! It will prove your downfall if you do not stay the
flow."

"If you have
come here to exchange character flaws with me," said Melli, "then I
suggest arrogance as one of yours."

The captain
laughed once more. His hand stole to his gleaming mustache, which Melli was
beginning to suspect served to hide less than perfect teeth.

She was desperate
to know what was going to happen to her, but didn't want to betray her anxiety
to the captain. Instead, she said, "I hope you don't plan to keep me here
long, as the dark robs me of my appetite and good looks. I'm sure you wouldn't
like an ugly, scrawny stray on your hands."

"My dear
lady, you do yourself an injustice. I would say your beauty is enhanced by the
dark, like a wine in a cellar."

"Some wines
turn to vinegar if left too long."

"You will not
be left too long. By the morrow you will be on your way."

"Which way is
that?"

"Eastward is
the usual route." The captain shrugged. "Whatever way, it is no
concern of yours."

"How so?"
Melli was beginning to feel anger at his smugness.

"Spoils of
war, my dear. You're mine to do with how I please." With that the captain
executed a singularly contemptuous bow and walked over to the door. "And
it pleases me to make a healthy profit." He stepped from the room and
closed and locked the door behind him.

Melli's hand stole
toward her side. She felt the fabric of her dress and then the hardness of the
boned corset. Just above her waist, her fingers found what they'd been
searching for: the knife. It was still there, pressed against her rib cage.
Blood-warm and metal-smooth, it was now her only comfort; whatever happened
next, at least she had a blade.

"Rotten lamb!
Rotten pork! Bring your rotten meat here!" Nabber was intrigued by this
call and pushed through the crowds toward the man who was shouting. "What
d'you want with rotten meat?" he asked. Nabber was always open to the
possibility of a new ploy.

"Have you got
any?"

"No."

"Well, don't
stand around wasting my time then."

"I could get
some, though, if you make it worth my while."

"Don't be
stupid, boy. There's no money in rotten meat., It's charity. For the
lepers."

"You give
your lepers rotten meat?" The man nodded and Nabber continued, admiringly,
"You treat your lepers well in Bren, we give 'em nothing in Rom."

"The duke is
famous for his good works." The man smiled the smile of the morally
superior and urged Nabber along.

Nabber was
beginning to like Bren. At first it had seemed like a cold fish of a city when
compared to his beloved Rom, but it was beginning to grow on him. Now that he'd
been in the city for a few days, he realized he had been wrong about there
being no smell. Bren did have an odor: a subtle festering. Once his young
nostrils finally picked up on this he began to feel decidedly more at home. In
fact, he was now starting to think that there was really little difference
between the two cities. Bren was just cleverer when it came to hiding its
flaws.

Of course the cold
was an entirely different matter. He just wasn't bom for the snow. True, a man
could wear a most handsome cloak in the cold, but it just wasn't enough.

Thanks to a
well-to-do but unsuspecting salt merchant, he had managed to procure some
rather fine pigskin gloves. They were far too big, however, and hung limply on
his hands like just-milked cow's udders. So he didn't wear them. He prided
himself on being well turned out: Swift would have expected no less.

He had the
beginnings of a healthy contingency once more. Bren was an affluent city. The
traders' market was proving to be fertile ground. Oh, Bren had pockets of its
own, but from what he'd seen, they were sadly lacking in finesse. A quick
snatch and grab. What skill was there in that? Swift, had he been dead-which was
quite possible, given his risky line of business-would have turned in his
grave.

Nabber forced his
way through the crowds. Due to his diminutive size and the great clamor of
people, he couldn't see where he was going. This was only a problem when he bumped
his shin painfully against a stone fountain. "Borc's breath!" he
muttered, rubbing his leg. "What's the use of all these fountains?"
Since he'd been here, he'd noticed that there was hardly a street corner that
didn't boast a fountain or a decorative pool. Only they didn't look very
decorative with their dark, bird-dropping-stained stone. In fact, they looked
rather depressing. Doubtless the man who'd built the city had a great love of
water, either that or he took a fiendish delight in placing fountains just
where they'd cause the most inconvenience. Like here.

Nabber was
beginning to feel a little annoyed; his shin was throbbing and he was having no
luck locating Tawl.

The trouble was
that tall, golden-haired men just weren't as rare here as they were in Rorn.
He'd asked people if they'd seen a golden-haired stranger and had been sent on
various forays to all four corners of the city. So far he'd found a sheepherder
from Ness, a fortune-teller from Lanholt, and a pimp from Dourhaven. But no
Tawl. The pimp had been most accommodating, though, even offered to help him
look. But the man hinted at the time-honored tradition of a favor for a favor,
and Nabber didn't think he'd be willing to oblige with what might be asked.

So that left him
nowhere. Well, more exactly, it left him at the foot of an inconvenient and
ugly fountain.

It was early
morning, and the day offered thin light and sharp breezes. Bren was yet another
city of early risers, and the streets were already crowded with people going
about their business. Commerce was the great and invisible bond that held the
city together. Nabber could feel its pull, and it was like a caress to him. He
hurried on his way to the traders' market.

The pickpocket's
art lay in its subtlety. The secret was in the touch, and the trick was to make
your victim believe that it was purely accidental. The touch could range from a
gentle brushing of an arm to a plunderous fall into the crowd. Body contact was
what counted. Nabber could turn a pat on the shoulder into a delve into a
tunic, an arm outstretched to steady himself into an exploration of a purse.
The art of the pocket was similar to that of the magician: it was all sleight
of hand. A magician had his flick of the wrist, a pocket had his furtive
fingerings.

The most important
skill to those who valued their artand Nabber, having been taught by an expert,
counted himself among their number-was the lift. If a man had a goodly weight
of coins nestled in his tunic, he would feel their loss as keenly as a missing
tooth if the lift wasn't done right. The pocket must withdraw swiftly, but also
carefully. He mustn't lift the package too quickly away from the body. The
pressure should be gradually. diminished, lest the body detect the sudden
change.

Of course, a
distraction round about this time helped, and Nabber made a point of picking a
mark who was either engrossed in conversation, in a hurry to be on his way, or
watching a spectacle. Pretty young ladies were the most reliable spectacle. A
man will forget what time of day it is when a shapely figure walks past.

There were other
techniques: ways of slipping rings from fingers and bracelets from wrists, ways
of taking knives from scabbards and fur from collars. There was more than one
way to rob a mark.

The best thing
about pocketing to Nabber was the way no one was hurt. It was not a violent or
threatening crime. It didn't even deprive a man of all his worldly goods, like
robbing his house would. It just left a man short of coinage and trinkets. And
to Nabber, it was a matter of honor that he always picked people who could well
afford to replace both.

By midmorning his
tunic was sporting some unusual but profitable bulges. Nabber could tell from
the soft clink of metals against his belly that gold had been acquired. Gold
had a sound all of its own, and music could be heard in its janglings.

Once he'd
confirmed this supposition-a quick trip down a long alleyway-he decided a fine
breakfast was in order. He had a fancy for nice surroundings and a blazing
fire. He spied a group of rich-looking merchants, one of whom was familiar and
would doubtless find himself short later in the day, and decided to follow
them. The plump ones always knew where the best eating was.

He was led to a
well-kept inn name of Cobb's Cranny. A rosy-cheeked man came forward to greet
the merchants. He was all welcomes and solicitudes, bringing warm blankets and
hot toddies, ordering the fire to be bellowed and the tables to be laid. His
air of genial supervision led Nabber to conclude that the host was none other than
Cobb himself.

Once the merchants
were settled to his satisfaction, the innkeeper turned his attention to Nabber.
"Servants round the back, boy."

"I'm afraid
you're mistaken, sir," said Nabber. "I am no servant. But I will
gladly take my business elsewhere, though I've heard the name of Cobb's Cranny
on many a well-fed man's lips and was hoping to try your famous special."
Nabber knew he was on a safe bet with the famous special. There was not an inn
or hostelry in the whole of the Known Lands that did not boast a famous
special.

The innkeeper
relented. "I must ask to see your money first, young man." Nabber
pulled out one gold coin. The innkeeper nodded. "Now would you care for
the special boiled or fried?"

"I've been
told fried is best."

Nabber settled
himself in a comfortable upholstered chair that was as close to the fire as he
could manage, since the merchants had formed a barricade around it. He poured
himself a glass of bitter and foamy ale and settled down to enjoy himself.

Now, quite apart
from his skills as a pocket, Nabber had another accomplishment he was proud of.
He had what was known in Rom as "big ears." That is to say, he had
the hearing of a fox. His time as a lookout had honed this skill to a fine art.
Everyone knew lookouts should be more accurately termed listenouts. Down in the
darkened streets of Rorn, under the mantle of the night, you heard a man before
you saw him.

Nabber could never
pass up an opportunity to practice this skill and had been an uninvited party
to countless conversations in taverns too numerous to mention. You could never
tell when a casual remark between two companions might prove profitable. Not
that profit was his only motive, though it was the only honorable one. The
truth was that Nabber was just plain curious.

He sat back in his
comfortable chair and listened to the conversation between the merchants. They
were talking about the proposed marriage of the duke's daughter.

"I tell you,
Fengott," said the fat one, "I'm not so sure about the whole thing.
What do we want with a prince from the Four Kingdoms coming here and ruling our
city? Bren 's doing just fine without him."

"The duke
seems set on it, though. I must say, I don't think he's got any intention of
letting Prince Kylock come here and take his place. As I see it, the duke
intends to use the kingdoms as his personal stockpile. Grain and timber we'll
have aplenty."

"Aye,"
said the third one. "A marriage for the duke's convenience, that's
all."

"From what
I've heard that prince will be getting quite a handful." The fat man
looked around and then lowered his voice. "'Tis rumored that Catherine's
no blushing virgin."

"I wouldn't
say that in the duke's hearing, if I were you, Pulrod," said the one named
Fengott. "A man would be sent to the gallows for such talk."

"Aye, but not
before he'd been tortured first," chipped in the third one.

Nabber lost track
of the conversation as the innkeeper brought him a huge steaming bowl of fried
goose feet. Goose feet! His stomach turned at the sight of them. All that talk
in Rorn about northerners being barbarians was obviously true. "Eat
up," said the man who could be Cobb. "There's plenty more where they
came from."

Nabber wasn't
generally a fussy eater, but he drew the line at trotters, tongues, and feet.
The innkeeper hovered over him, anxiously awaiting his first taste. Nabber took
a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.

"What's the
matter, my boy?" The innkeeper was instantly concerned.

"It's the
goose feet," said Nabber, shoulders shaking. "I thought I'd be able
to face them after all this time, but the sight of them reminds me too much of
my dead mother."

"She had feet
like a goose?"

Nabber buried his
head deeper. "No, she used to cook them for me just like this. They were
my favorites. The sight of them is more than I can bear."

The innkeeper
ordered the bowl to be removed. He placed a comforting hand on Nabber's
shoulder. "I understand, my boy. I'll have something else prepared, no
extra cost."