A Man Betrayed (2 page)

"All this
riding is playing havoc with my rhoids, Grift."

"I know what
you mean, Bodger. But it's good for one thing, though."

"What's that,
Grift?"

"Regularity,
Bodger. There's nothing like a good gallop to have you running for the nearest
bush."

"You're a
wise man, Grift." Bodger nodded his head in agreement while trying to keep
his mule on track. "Of course, I'm not so sure that you were right about
us volunteering for this journey to Bren. I had no idea we'd be assigned the
worst duty in the whole crew."

"Aye,
cleaning up after the horses leaves a lot to be desired, Bodger. It was bound
to fall to us, though. You and me being the lowest in rank. I still say that we
were lucky to be allowed to come on this mission in the first place. They
wouldn't let any old soldiers go along with the royal guard. It's a distinct
honor."

"So you keep
reminding me, Grift." Bodger looked decidedly skeptical. "I just hope
the women in Bren are as willing and comely as you keep saying."

"They most
certainly are, Bodger. Have I ever been wrong about women in the past?"

"I've got to
give you that, Grift. There's not much you don't know about women."

The two men were
bringing up the rear of a large column. They were over eight score in number;
five score of royal guard, a score of Maybor's own, together with various camp
attendants and packhorses.

"I think I
know what makes the Halcus so mean, Grift. This weather is terrible. A blizzard
every day and wind so cold it could freeze the juice from a tallow maker's
molding."

"Aye, Bodger.
Three weeks of this is more than enough for any man. In normal weather we would
have been in Bren by now. As it is, we're barely out of Halcus territory. Of
course, the chilliest thing around here ain't the weather."

"What d'you
mean, Grift?"

"Lord Maybor
and Baralis, that's what I mean, Bodger. Those two make the north wind seem
like a cool breeze."

"You're right
there, Grift. They've been flinging each other looks as dark and deadly as an
executioner's hood since the day we started out." Bodger had to pull hard
on his reins, as his mule had its own idea of where it wanted to go, and it
wasn't along with the pack.

"There's no
love lost there, for sure. Have you noticed the way they won't even pitch their
tents within a tourney's length of each other?"

"That I have,
Grift. Not to mention the fact that Maybor rides at the fore all day, fancying
himself a king, while Baralis brings up the rear like a wounded soldier."

"So you think
me a wounded soldier, do you?" The two men turned around, startled, as
Baralis rode up between them. His face was deathly pale and his eyes glittered
harshly with the reflected luster of the snow.

Neither guard
spoke: Bodger because he had been almost frightened from his saddle and was
trying to right himself, and Grift because he was clever enough to know when it
was best not to speak.

The king's
chancellor continued, a smile threatening but not quite forming, around his
thin lips. "Come, come now, gentlemen. Why so tongue-tied all of a
sudden?" His beautiful voice belied the coldness of his eyes. "You
appeared so talkative only a moment ago. Am I to take it that the north wind
has suddenly frozen your tongues? Or is it that you are beginning to regret your
glib words?"

Grift could see
that Bodger was about to reply, and although his every instinct willed him to
remain silent, he knew that if he didn't speak up now, Bodger would get himself
into even worse trouble. "My friend here is young, Lord Baralis, and he
partook of a little too much ale at breakfast. He meant nothing by his remark.
A jest, no more."

The king's
chancellor reflected a moment before replying. A gloved hand rubbed idly at his
chin. "Youth is a poor excuse for stupidity; ale is an even poorer
one." Grift opened his mouth to speak, but Baralis forestalled him with a
sudden gesture of the gloved hand. "Nay, man, protest no more. Let the
matter rest here, with you in my debt." He met the eyes of both guards,
allowing his meaning time to be fully comprehended. Satisfied, he rode forward,
his black cloak spread out over the dock of his mare.

So even the camp
attendants were gossiping about him! Still, there was solace to be gained in
the fact that both of the sniveling dolts were now beholden to him. Baralis had
long since learned the value of having people around who were indebted to him.
It was a more valuable coinage than gold in a locked chest. One could never
tell when one might need to call upon the services of men such as those. After
all, guards usually guarded
something
of value.

Oh, but it was
cold. Baralis felt chilled to his very soul. He longed for the warmth of his
chambers and the comfort of his own fire. It was his hands that suffered the
worst. Even now, clad in fur-lined gloves, the wind still cut through to the
bone. His weak, deformed hands, so beautiful in youth; were now ruined by his
own ambition. The scarred and scant flesh was no match for the wind.

Snow two hands
deep covered their path. It shifted with crafty precision with every bluster of
air. As a result, the way was treacherous. The foreguard had already lost one
horse to lameness. The unfortunate creature had misstepped by only an arm's
length, but it was enough for it to find itself in a deep gully masquerading as
a benign stretch of snow. They had slaughtered the gelding where it fell.

They were now only
a week away from Bren. Yesterday they had crossed the River Emm. There was not
a man in the party who hadn't sighed in relief upon traversing the mighty
river. Not only was it a great danger in itself, but more importantly, it
marked the end of Halcus territory. The company had thought themselves lucky to
have successfully traveled through the lands of the enemy for ten days yet
remain undetected and unchallenged. Baralis knew differently.

The idea of using
his contacts with the Halcus to sabotage the party and slaughter Maybor had
been tempting. There was nothing Baralis wanted more than the death of the vain
and swaggering lord. It was just too risky, though. A raid on their party could
easily get out of hand. He, himself, might be endangered. No, it was better not
to chance his own safety. There were other less hazardous ways to rid himself
of Maybor.

The lord of the
Eastlands had to be eliminated: it was a fact beyond questioning. Baralis would
not tolerate any interference with his plans in Bren. The betrothal
negotiations would take subtlety and cunning-two qualities that Maybor was
sadly lacking in. More than that, the man was a threat: not just a physical threat-though
Baralis did not doubt that his own assassination was never far from the great
lord's thoughts but also a threat to the whole betrothal. Maybor had wanted his
daughter to marry Prince Kylock. His failure to secure such a union had
embittered him against the new choice for bride.

Baralis scanned
the column of men, searching. Near the front, astride a magnificent stallion,
he spied the object of his thoughts. Extravagantly robed in scarlet and silver
was the lord himself. Even the way Maybor sat his horse told of his
over-bloated sense of self-importance. Baralis' lip curled into well-worn lines
of contempt at the very sight of him.

He simply could
not allow Maybor to reach Bren alive. As king's envoy, the man was actually
superior to him! The queen had pulled a dirty trick with that particular
appointment.
He,
king's chancellor, the very person who was instrumental
in bringing about the match between Prince Kylock and Catherine, should have
had preeminence in Bren. Instead the queen had appointed him prince's envoy,
and in doing so had made him subservient to Maybor.

He could not and
would not endure such an indignity. The duke of Bren and his fair daughter were
his concern. Maybor had no business bringing his pot to this fire. Baralis was
aware of the politics of both appointments, but the queen would find all her
cleverness unrewarded when news of Maybor's demise reached the kingdoms.

There was no doubt
about it. Today, this chill and frosty noon, with the north wind blowing like a
siren from the abyss, Maybor would meet his death.

Melli knew better
than to open the shuttered window. There was a gale coming, and the scant
stretch of wood was the only thing between them and its ravages. As it was she
wasn't sure the latch would hold. Still, she suspected it might-she had always
been lucky that way. The famous Maybor luck had served her family well through
the centuries. Or more accurately, it had served the Maybor men well, as they
seemed to drain all the luck from their women.

Not her, though.
She was the first female of her family to be endowed with that most capricious
of gifts.

Melli put her eye
to the knot hole and peered out onto the northern plains of Halcus. Almost
dazzled by the brilliance of the snow, it took her a moment before she could discern
any details of the land. The wind had picked up since she'd last looked and was
carrying the snow in its thrall. There was little to be seen: white land
against white sky. The snowy expanse was probably grazing pasture in the
spring, but for now it was laid out defenseless for winter to take its toll.

The bite of the
cold grew too much for her eyes and Melli withdrew her gaze inward. With a
scrap of dirty oilcloth she plugged the knot hole. Turning, she caught Jack
looking at her, and for some reason her face flushed. Almost against her will,
her hand smoothed her hair. It was foolish, she thought, that after being away
from the court and its customs for so long she still had the instincts of a
court beauty. The women of Castle Harvell had so many rules to live by: rules
of conduct, rules of dress, rules of form. Now that Melli had distanced herself
from the great court, she realized all the rules could be summed up in one: a
woman must at all times strive to please a man.

Even now, after
experiencing things that a court beauty could only guess at, Melli found
herself falling into the old habits of femininity, most particularly the habit
of wanting to look nice for a man.

She smiled at her
own folly. Jack, catching the mood of her smile, grinned in response. His keen
and' handsome face, made all the more appealing by his winter color, caused
Melli to feel unaccountably happy. Suddenly she was laughing: bright and high
and merry as a tinker. Then Jack joined in. They stood at opposite ends of the
small but that had once been a chicken coop and laughed with each other.

She didn't know
why Jack laughed, didn't even know why she herself laughed, she only knew it
felt good to do so. And for so long now there had been so little that felt
good.

The weather had been
against them from the start. Once they crossed into Halcus territory it had
become even worse. They had no knowledge of the land and had quickly lost their
bearings. That, together with the necessity of changing their course whenever
they spotted another human being, had caused them to lose their way. Melli had
read tales in her childhood of people taking long journeys guided only by the
sun and the stars, but the reality was much different. What the tales failed to
tell was that in winter both the sun and the stars didn't put in an appearance
for weeks on end. In the daytime the sky was pale and filled with cloud, in the
nighttime the sky was dark and filled with cloud.

The result was
that they had little idea of where they lay in relation to Bren and Annis. The
only thing they knew for sure was that they were still somewhere in Halcus. The
fact that they were still in the lands of the enemy had been proven only two
days back.

The weather had
been getting progressively worse, and Melli had noticed that Jack was still
having problems with his injured shoulder. Oh, he tried to hide it, men always
did things like that, both in tales
and
reality. He had developed the
habit of always slinging his pack over his left shoulder, thereby keeping the
strain from his right. Knee-deep in snow they walked, the wind robbing them of
what little warmth their clothes could muster. Eventually they came upon a
derelict farmhouse. The farmer had long since left, and for good reason: the
place had been burnt to the timbers, leaving only a snow-covered ruin.

A storm was
threatening. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the wind wolfed at their
heels. Weary and bonecold, their spirits soared when behind a clump of bushes
they discovered the chicken coop. Located some distance from the farmhouse, the
coop had stayed clear of any inflammatory sparks.

Melli knew there
would be trouble when the door failed to give and the strain of a latch could
clearly be heard within. No door latched itself. Someone else had taken refuge
in the coop. Jack's eyes met hers. She could tell he was sizing up just how
much she needed shelter. Without cover, the coming storm might be their last.
She shook her head slightly: better to walk away. The latched door meant
people, and people meant danger. Jack looked at her a second longer,
registering her warning, and then turned his gaze to the horizon. The storm lay
poised to strike like a predator.

With a sudden,
violent gesture, he kicked down the door. The latch gave way. The door
collapsed backward, its top hinge failing. In the coop were two men, knives
drawn.

The first thing
Melli felt was Jack's arm slamming into her chest, pushing her back out of
harm's way. She looked up from the snow in time to marvel at how quickly he
drew his blade. A pig farmer's blade. Melli could detect the sharp, loamy smell
of ale. The two men had been drinking. They moved apart warily, seeking to
flank Jack. Jack stepped back from the threshold. Even to Melli's untutored eye
it seemed like a smart move. When the men attacked now, they would be forced to
come through the doorway one at a time.