A Man Betrayed (17 page)

Never had it been
more difficult to deny the existence of sorcery. The very air was thick with
it. Maybor rolled his phlegm and spat out the taste of meat and magecraft.
"Come on now, men," he cried, purposefully sounding harsh.
"There are still some alive. Now is not the time for shows of womanly
weakness."

The soldiers began
to clear away what remained of the snow and free the few men who were still
moving. Past the melt-site, Maybor noticed a mound of snow that looked to have
several barrels embedded in it. If he wasn't mistaken, his mark was upon them.
"Before you deal with the dead," he called, "free my cider. Five
gold pieces to the man who brings me the most barrels."

It was time for
his midmorning snack. He had a fancy for some meat. Hot, sizzling fat
surrounding delicate pink flesh: charred on the outside, tender within.
Tavalisk had to stop himself from pulling the bell chord and summoning forth a
huge joint of lamb.

He was watching
his diet. His physician-Borc rot his soul-had lectured him on the dangers of
overeating. None of the dreary recitation had any effect on the archbishop
until the foul charlatan had mentioned the fact that overeating could lead to
early death. Early death was one thing that Tavalisk most definitely wanted to
avoid. What was the point of amassing great stashes of gold and land if one
wasn't going to live to enjoy them?

Consequently he
was trying his best to cut down on his eating. Instead of his usual
three-course breakfast--eggs and bacon, followed by kippers and rolls, followed
by cold pea soup--he now had only two courses. Needless to say, it was the pea
soup that was bidden a fond farewell. Still, it was a sacrifice, and such
uncharacteristic self-denial was hard for Tavalisk to bear. In fact, it made
him rather angry.

The physician had
prescribed music as a distraction. Now, the archbishop was as fond of music as
the next man, and music might indeed tame savage beasts and so forth, but when
it came to his stomach, a jaunty tune-no matter how well played just couldn't
stop his overactive bile from burning away at his gut.

A knock was heard
at the door. The wood rang of Gamil. "Enter," called Tavalisk, taking
up his lyre. He strummed with studied indolence, his mind firmly on food.

"I wish Your
Eminence joy of the day."

"There is
little joy in this day, Gamil." The archbishop suddenly hated his aide;
the man probably had three courses for his breakfast. "Quickly tell me
what petty intelligences you have and then be off. I am already tiring of your
presence."

"Well, Your
Eminence, do you remember the man who spied on the knight for us?"

"Of course I
do, Gamil. I am too young for my dotage just yet. You mean my spy, the one who
waited outside Bevlin's but and saw the dead body the next morning?" The
smell of cooking wafted gently through the open window. Tavalisk strummed
faster on his lyre.

"The man has
been seen keeping low company, Your Eminence."

"Just how low,
Gamil?"

"He's been
talking with friends of the Old Man."

"Hmm. That
low, eh?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence. He was spotted in the whoring quarter emerging from one of the Old
Man's lairs, accompanied by two cronies."

Tavalisk looked
over to the bowl of fruit, the only food in the room. Peaches and plums mocked
him with their pink plumpness. How he hated the cruelty of fruit! He fingered
his lyre with increased vigor. "And did this man leave with a heavy
purse?"

"I can't
exactly say, Your Eminence. But straight after leaving the Old Man's lair, he
made his way to the market district and bought himself two new robes."

"Wool or
silk?"

"Silk, Your
Eminence."

"Ah, then we
have our answer. Our man has sold his information to the Old Man."

"Your
Eminence is as wise as he is musical."

"So you've
noticed my playing, then, Gamil?" Tavalisk broke into a new and very loud
tune on his lyre.

"Your
Eminence's playing leaves me at a loss for words."

"That is
always the way with the great masters, Gamil. They move one to emotion, not to
speeches." The archbishop finished off his tune with a suitably theatrical
flourish. Even to his biased ears he could tell he hadn't quite hit all the
right notes. Still, genius was measured by more than purely technical skills
alone.

"So,
Gamil," he said, laying down his lyre, "how well did the Old Man know
Bevlin?"

"We know they
corresponded at irregular intervals, Your Eminence. The last time we were aware
of an exchange of letters was just after the knight returned from Larn."

"It seems to
me, Gamil, that the Old Man won't be pleased that his good friend Bevlin was
bumped off by someone he tried to help."

"Indeed, Your
Eminence. The Old Man is known for his loyalty to his friends."

"What action
do you think he might take?"

"Who can
tell, Your Eminence?" said Gamil with a slight shrug.

"You can
tell, Gamil. That's what I pay you for."

"These things
are difficult to predict, Your Eminence. Perhaps the Old Man might seek revenge
for Bevlin's death by having the knight assassinated."

"Hmm. The
situation bears watching. Keep an eye to the gates and ports. I will be
interested in knowing if any of the Old Man's cronies leave the city."

"Yes, Your
Eminence."

Tavalisk pulled on
the bell rope; he needed food. Playing the lyre had honed an edge to his appetite.
No wonder so many of the. great masters were as fat as pigs.

"I think it
would be wise to pick up our man, Gamil. I can't allow one of my spies to turn
traitor and get away with it. And who knows, once his tongue is sufficiently
loosened by the rack, we might find out just what the Old Man is planning to do
about Bevlin's death." The archbishop put down the lyre. Something about
its shape reminded him of pomegranates--his favorite fruit. "Is there
anything else?"

"A rather
unsettling rumor about Tyren has reached my ears, Your Eminence."

"How
unsettling, Gamil?"

"I've heard
that he's ordered the knights to intercept and seize all of Rom's cargoes that
are headed to the north."

"This is
intolerable! Who does that gold-greedy bigot think he is?" The archbishop
pulled on the bell rope again.

He now had need of
a drink as well as a meal. "I need this confirmed as soon as possible,
Gamil. If it is true I will have to come up with a suitable form of
retaliation."

If a war was
coming, let no one say that Rom was slow from the stables. The archbishop
smiled a tiny smile. The whole thing was really quite stimulating. The Known
Lands had been too long without a decent conflict, and as long as it was waged
in the north, both he and Rom would be safe from its ravages.

"I shall
endeavor to find the fact behind the fiction, Your Eminence. If there's nothing
further, I will take my leave."

"I was rather
hoping you would stay, Gamil. After a quick snack, I was planning to play all
of Shuge's masterworks, and I'm anxious for your opinion on my
fingerings."

"But Shuge's
masterworks run to some five hours or more, Your Eminence."

"I know,
Gamil. It will be a real treat for such an avid music lover as yourself."

There were six
sacks of grain in the kitchen and Rovas was busy turning them into eight. Jack
watched as the seasoned smuggler practiced one of the less ethical tricks of
his trade. He poured a portion of the barley grain into a new sack until it was
quarter full, then he took a quantity of what looked to be wood shavings and
poured them into the sack. Next he topped the sack up with more grain and tied
it with a length of twine.

"Couldn't
that do a person harm?" asked Jack.

Rovas smiled
showing wide teeth in a wide mouth. "There's people who'd put worse than
wood shavings in grain, boy."

"Such
as?"

"Ground
bones, soil, sand." Rovas made an expansive gesture with his arm.
"The people who get this grain should count themselves lucky. I've taken
the trouble to shave the wood real fine. No one will choke on it, and I've heard
that it's good for the digestion."

"Better for
your pocket, though."

"What's the
point of a man doing business if he can't make a little profit?" Rovas
reached over to Jack and tousled his hair. "You're young yet, boy, and you
don't know the ways of the world. Commerce is and always has been its driving
force." He slung one of the sacks of grain over his shoulder. "You've
got a lot to learn, Jack, and if I do say so myself, I'm the man to teach
you." With that he stepped outside and began loading the grain onto his
cart.

Once he had
finished, he turned to Magra, who was spinning by the fire. "Come,
woman," he said. "Accompany me to market like a good wife
would." Rovas then addressed Jack. "You see, boy, potential customers
will think a seller more honest if they see he is a family man."

"Perhaps I
should go along as your son, then," said Jack with a hint of amusement,
"just to complete the family circle."

Rovas slapped Jack
on the back. "You're learning fast, boy. But I'll have to decline. I've
known these buyers for many years now, and a long lost son might prove a little
difficult for them to swallow."

"So might
those eight sacks of grain."

Rovas laughed
heartily and even the normally hostile Magra managed a snort of amusement. The
smuggler buckled his belt and slipped a knife and a sword under the leather.

"When I get
back, boy," he said, "I'll start teaching you how to use a blade like
a real man." He winked merrily and then was off, Magra trailing after him.

Jack breathed a
sigh of relief. It was good to be on his own. It seemed as if he'd had no
chance to think since he'd heard that Melli was dead. He moved closer to the
fire and poured himself a cup of mulled cider. The sweet and heady fragrance of
apples tugged at his senses, evoking memories of his life in Castle Harvell.
The kitchens were often filled with the scent of apples, either with baking or
cider-making. There was such simplicity then; no dangers, no worries, no guilt.

He ran his hand
over the thick and bristling growth on his chin and neck. It had been many days
since he'd had a shave. The last time had been the day the Halcus soldiers came
to the coop ... the day that Melli was murdered.

Jack threw the cup
into the fire where it smashed against the back
wall-he
should
have
been there!
It should have been he, not Melli, who was clubbed to death. He
had failed the only person who'd ever relied upon him. He cupped his face in
his hands, pressing his fingertips deep into his temples. The pain of guilt
became a tangible pressure. He felt it build up, demanding release. A sharp
metallic taste slivered along his tongue.

The shelving that
hung above the fire suddenly rattled and then gave way, sending all the pots
and pans that were hanging from it plunging into the flames. Jack stepped back
in horror. He heard a door open behind him and Tarissa walked in.

"What in
Borc's name have you done?" she cried, dashing forward to salvage what was
probably a week's worth of food from the fire. "Don't just stand there,
help me!" She grabbed hold of the metal poker and speared the haunch of
mutton with its tip. "It's badly charred, but the meat will be all
right," she said. "Wrap a rag around your hand and save what pots you
can."

Jack obeyed her
orders and pulled several pots from the fire. Most were empty, their contents
spilt and then lost to the flames.

"The stew and
porridge!" cried Tarissa, but it was too late. Those two most staple of
foods sizzled on the embers. Jack pulled the last of the pans from the fire. He
managed to salvage a pot full of beets, two roasting turnips, and a string of
sausages.

"What
happened?" demanded Tarissa. She was obviously upset. Angry tears gleamed
in her eyes. A family's wealth was judged by its supply of food.

"I don't
know," Jack said. "The shelf just collapsed." He wasn't being
honest, he knew what had happened: as his anger and frustration flared, the
shelf had given way. The two were related, there was no doubt in his mind, and
it was sorcery that provided the connection. He supposed he should be thankful
that no one was hurt. Only he didn't feel very thankful at the moment, just
tired and confused.

"Here, let me
look at your hand. The rag is badly scorched." Tarissa sat beside him on
the bench and unwrapped the rag. The flesh beneath was livid red. Tarissa's
face softened into remorse. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said. "I
shouldn't have asked you to put your hand in the fire. Please forgive me."
Her fingers hovered above the burn and then lightly touched his wrist.

Jack could not
meet her eyes. Blistering pain swelled in his hand. He almost welcomed the
sensation. It diverted his thoughts from the truth. Sorcery accompanied him,
and like a shadow it would follow him to the grave.

Tarissa began
searching in cabinets for ointments to put on his skin. He was deeply moved by
her sudden change in demeanor. Her kindness was an unexpected gift. Jack sat
and let her rub salve onto his wounds. Her touch was gentle, as if she were
afraid to hurt him further. He looked at her face. Her lashes.were long and
fair, her nose short with a tiny bump, her lips pink and full. She was
beautiful, not perfect, just beautiful. She looked up and their eyes met. For a
brief second Jack was puzzled by what he saw. There was something about her
that was known to him. Delicate hazel eyes, an intricate mingling of brown and
green, met his.

Her lips moved the
barest instance: an invitation as bold as open arms. He leaned forward and
kissed her, a chaste kiss made less so by the plumpness of both sets of lips.
Jack felt her tender flesh give way and then envelop him. He reached out with
his arm to draw her near, but she backed away. She stood up awkwardly and would
not look at him.