A Man Betrayed (18 page)

"It was you
that made the shelf give way." A statement. Jack looked to the floor.
"I never laid a hand upon it."

"I
know." Tarissa smiled with tantalizing assurance. Jack could think of no
reply. There was little point in lying; she had guessed the truth. Instead he
asked, "Is Tarissa your full name?"

She laughed
outright at this blatant attempt to change the subject, yet seemed happy to go
along with it. "My full name is Tarissyna," she said.

Jack felt his
spirits lighten. She knew the truth but didn't condemn him: her second gift to
him. "Tarissyna is a noblewoman's name in the kingdoms."

She shrugged.
"Perhaps, but I've lived in Halcus most of my life, and my name counts for
little here."

"When did you
leave the kingdoms?"

"I was a babe
in arms when my mother brought me here." There was an edge to her voice.
It took Jack a moment to realize it was bitterness.

"Why did
Magra leave?"

"She was not
wanted. She was an inconvenience to people in high places. By staying she
risked death."

"And
you?"

Tarissa laughed
coldly. "They wanted me dead more than my mother,"

"But you were
just a baby."

"Wars have
been waged over babies." Tarissa turned away and began to brush the
remains of the food from the hearth.

Jack could tell
she wanted to say no more. She had told him just enough to pique his interest,
and he found himself more puzzled than ever. He could still feel the press of
her lips against his. It acted like a reprimand, reminding him not to question
too deeply, after all she had done no less for him. By dropping the subject of
the shelf falling into the fire, she had saved him from awkward questions. He
would do no less for her.

Jack knelt beside
her, helping to scrape the burnt stew from the grate. He looked at Tarissa, and
she looked at him. Their mutual secrets, only hinted at, never told, acted as a
bond between them. And when their arms brushed together as they cleaned up the
fireplace, neither was inclined to be the first to pull away.

A short time
later, when the grate shone like a newly minted coin, the door burst open and
in came Rovas and Magra. The older woman sniffed the room like a bloodhound and
then made straight for the fire. "What has happened here?" she cried.
Even in anger, her voice carried the elegant modulated tones of a noblewoman.
Her eyes darted to Jack.

Tarissa spoke
before Jack could stop her. "There was a little accident, Mother. I was
stirring the stew when the whole shelf came down."

"How can that
be?" asked Rovas. "I nailed that up good and strong before winter set
in."

"Hmm, I think
we have our answer, then," said Magra.

"If ever a
man lacked practical skills, it is you, Rovas Widegirth."

"Less of the
wide girth, woman. You know as well as I do that to be a successful merchant
you need to appear prosperous. There's nothing like a big belly for showing a
man's got money to spend."

Jack wondered what
a woman like Magra was doing with a man like Rovas. They were total opposites.
Magra was refined; her speech, her appearance, even the words she chose, spoke
of nobility, yet Rovas was a self-confessed rogue. It didn't make any sense.

"No need to
worry," Rovas was saying. "There's plenty more where that came from. How
can I call myself a smuggler and not have some hidden stashes?" He turned
to Jack.

"Come with
me, boy. You can help me dig up the vegetable garden. I buried a chest of
salted beef there. The only problem is, I can't remember exactly where."

As Jack left the
cottage, he caught Tarissa's eye. He sent her a look of thanks. She had saved
him from some difficult questions.

Rovas spotted the
bum mark on his hand. "How'd you do that, boy?"

"I was
helping Tarissa save the pots from the flame."

"Right hand,
eh? Never mind, that won't stop me teaching you the blade. A true fighter knows
how to wield a knife with both .hands. This way your left can have a head
start."

Nabber made his
way along Bren's busy streets. Traders and beggars called to him. He bought a
stuffed pork pie from a street merchant and tossed a handful of coppers toward
a cripple and his blind mother. The speed with which the mother found the coins
was nothing short of miraculous for a blind woman. Nabber smiled brightly her
way. He knew she could see, but he admired her skill anyway. The way her eyes
rolled wildly in her sockets was truly the work of a dedicated artiste.

He bit into his
pie. It was delicious, hot and juicy, with at least a passing resemblance to
pork.

It was a beautiful
day, that is, for a place as cold as Bren. The sky was light blue and clear,
the air crisp and fresh. Something was going on in the city, he was sure of it.
To the north of the city, where all the fancy buildings and the duke's palace
were situated, the streets were being cleaned and banners were being hung.
Probably expecting important visitors, Nabber concluded. Affairs of state
didn't concern him, however. He had one mission on his mind today: he was going
to help Tawl.

He passed a market
stall where hand mirrors were being sold. He picked one up and had a quick look
at himself. "S'truth!" he muttered to his reflection. He hastily
smoothed back his hair with a handful of spit. To think he'd gone following
Tawl last night with the hair of a wild man. His collar was none too clean,
either. Swift would be disappointed.
"Always wear a clean camlet,
"
he would say. "You'll look
less like a scoundrel that
way.
" Nabber could see the wisdom of Swift's words. Though he still wasn't
sure what a camlet was.

He was tempted to
pocket the mirror-it would make a fine addition to his personal grooming
accoutrements but the stall-holder had a mean eye, and Nabber prided himself on
knowing when
not
to take chances.

The sun followed
him to the west of the city. It was late afternoon and Nabber wondered if he
should have made an effort to find Tawl earlier. The problem was that the best
pickings were to be found before noon, and he'd been reluctant to give up a
day's earnings. Swift would have thought him foolish. So here he was, best part
of the day over, bag full of coinage in his tunic, on his way to find the
knight.

He took a turn
onto Brotheling Street and made his way toward the place where he'd last seen
Tawl. The smell was more accurate a guide than any map. Each building had its
own characteristic odor, and Nabber honed in on the one he remembered from last
night. The place looked rather dismal in the daylight; the timbers were rotting
and the paint was peeling. It just went to show how generous the night was with
its favors. The building had looked like a palace under its patronage.

Nabber knocked
boldly on the door.

"Go away,
you're too early," came the reply.

"I'm looking
for a man, name of Tawl. He's a fighter."

Nabber was forced
to shout at the wood, for the door had not been opened.

"No one here
named Tawl. Now get lost!"

"He was here
last night. Big fellow, golden hair, bandage on his arm."

"What's in it
for me?"

Nabber began to
feel more comfortable talking to the faceless voice; information for coinage
was a concept he was more than familiar with. "Two silvers if you know
where he is."

"Ain't worth
my breath."

"Five silvers
then." This was turning out to be more expensive than he hoped. Still, it all
helped the cash circulate. Swift had given him long lectures on the importance
of circulation.

"Done."
The door was opened and a small-eyed woman emerged. Nabber recognized her at
once as being the woman who had stolen Tawl's gold. "Let's see the spark
of your silver."

Nabber brought out
the promised coinage. "May I be so bold as to ask the name of such a
fine-looking woman as yourself?"

The woman looked
taken aback by this request. She patted her elaborately coifed hair, and said,
"I'm Madame Thornypurse to you, young man."

Powder from her
head swirled into the air, and Nabber had to fight the urge to sneeze.
"So, Madame Thornypurse, which way was the gentleman headed?"

"Not a friend
of yours, is he?" The woman's voice was as shrill as a mating goose.

"No,
madame," said Nabber. "Never met him before in my life. I'm merely a
messenger."

Madame Thornypurse
sniffed in approval. "The man you're looking for has gone drinking in the
Duke's Fancy. It's a tavern on Skinners Lane. Now hand over the cash."

"It was a
pleasure doing business with you, madame," said Nabber with a little bow
as he passed her the coinage. Swift himself would have been impressed at the
speed with which the money disappeared into her bodice. Nearly as quickly, the
door was shut in his face.

Nabber sneezed
heavily; the hair powder finally proved too irritating to ignore. He then made
his way along Bren's busy streets. He soon found the Duke's Fancy. It was a
tall and brightly colored building. A group of men were dicing in the doorway.
Nabber was tempted to join them, for he loved to dice more than he liked to
eat, but he passed them by, pausing only once or twice to see how the dice were
landing. It was really quite a pity he was on a mission, as the dice were
landing with the grace of a goddess. A man could circulate a lot of coinage
with dice as sweet as those.

He entered the
tavern and pushed his way through the throngs of revelers. The air was thick
with the smells of hops, yeast, and sweat: a fine drinking man's odor.

Nabber caught the flash
of straw yellow hair: it was the woman who'd collected Tawl's money for him the
night before, and then passed it on to old Thornypurse. Indignation swelled in
his breast and he stepped toward her. She was calling loudly for more ale and
was being enthusiastically cheered on by a group of men and women. The ale
came-a whole barrel of it-and she reached into a sack to pay the innkeeper. It
was Tawl's sack. The woman was buying drinks for Borc knows how many people,
and paying for them with Tawl's money!

The knight was
still nowhere in sight. Nabber's eyes followed the sack. As always, his hands
were ahead of his brain. The straw-haired woman was distracted for only an
instant as she raised her cup in toast, but it was enough. Nabber slid the sack
from the table. With fingers that never faltered for an instant, he bundled it
into his cloak. Now was not the time to revel in the thrill of the snatch, so
he bowed his head low and made for the door.

A second later the
cry went up: "My gold! Someone's stole my gold!"

Nabber had to stop
himself from shouting ogut that it wasn't her gold at all. He kept calm. He
could see the door. Only a few steps and he'd be gone. There was some
disturbance in the crowd behind him. He couldn't afford to look back. He pushed
the last of the people out of the way and made it to the doorway. Still not
sure if he'd been fingered, he began to saunter slowly down the street. He was
just about to break out into a nonchalant whistle when he heard the telltale
sign of footsteps behind him. Nabber quickly abandoned all attempts to appear
blameless and started to run as fast as his legs could carry him.

Swift, while being
a thief of great sophistication, had known of the occasional need for a quick
escape. Nabber followed his instructions:
"Never run in a straight
line. Take every turn that crosses your path, always head to where the crowd is
at its thickest ... and move like the wind. "
Down streets and alleys
he fled, through markets and gatherings he charged. The footsteps still
followed. He dived into an alleyway, good and dark, and ran up its length. It
ended in a stone wall. Nabber drew a deep breath. It was too tall to scale;
he'd just have to blaze a path backward. Quickly he scanned his brain for any
words of wisdom that Swift might have imparted on this particular predicament.
He came up blank. Nabber was forced to conclude that Swift would never have
been stupid enough to run up a blind alleyway.

Knees trembling
from fatigue more than fright, Nabber turned to face his pursuer. The man was
silhouetted against the light. He moved forward and the sunlight shone on his
hair. Golden hair. It was Tawl,

A long moment
passed. The sun retreated with the tact of a diplomat, leaving man and boy
alone. A low wind gusted down the alleyway. It toyed with the filth, picking up
more smell than substance.

Tawl stood and
looked at Nabber, his great chest heaving, his hair the color of dark gold.
There was no expression to be read on his face. Without a word he began to move
away.

To Nabber's
amazement the knight turned and started to retrace his steps down the alleyway.
Tawl's pace was slow and his head was bowed. Nabber couldn't bear it an instant
longer. "Tawl!" he cried. "Wait." He saw the knight
hesitate for the briefest instant, and then, without turning round, he shook
his head. At the sight of this small, almost negligent gesture, Nabber felt his
throat grow tight. Tawl was walking away from him.

Swift had warned
him many times about the dangers of friendship:
"Never let a man get
close enough to rob your purse, "
he would say. Having no friends
himself, merely accomplices, Swift was a person who put little value on
friendship. Up until the time he'd met Tawl, Nabber had been inclined to agree
with him. But Swift wasn't always right. Yes, he could turn a phrase more
smoothly than a milkmaid churning butter, yet for all his cleverness he could
trust no one. And no one trusted him. Suddenly the idea of ending up like
Swift-a man who asked you what you wanted before asking your name-didn't seem
as enticing to Nabber as it had in the past.

He ran after Tawl
and put a hand on his arm. "Tawl, it's me! Nabber."