A Man Betrayed (21 page)

Tawl's opponent
gathered his strength and in one brilliant move pushed the knife away from his throat.
The knight was forced to step back. The last thing the dark-haired man saw was
Tawl stepping forward. Freed from the stalemate, Tawl pivoted to the side and
fell upon his opponent's flank. He sliced the man open from belly to groin.

The crowd was shocked.
It had happened too fast. Where was the skill? The finesse? A moment passed
while they decided how to respond. Nabber was disturbed at the sheer violence
of Tawl's attack. His opponent was lying in his own blood, his entrails seeping
from the wound. Even now, Nabber knew with all his heart that he couldn't
abandon his friend. It wasn't Tawl who he'd just watched fight: it was someone
else. He gathered his breath deep within his lungs and let out a cry:

"To the
victor!"

The crowd followed
his lead. The stalemate had been broken and Bren was happy once again to cheer
the winning side. The noise was dizzying and the sparkle of coinage was
dazzling. The dead man was soon covered with silver. Nabber took his markers
from his tunic and began to look around for his debtors. He spotted the
nobleman in the distance, trying to slink away unnoticed. Nabber spat with
disgust. He should have known better than to bet with anyone of the blood. They
were notoriously absent losers.

He had just decided
to cut his losses when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nabber didn't look
round at first; it certainly wouldn't be anyone eager to pay their bets.

For a brief second
his heart thrilled, perhaps it was Tawl. He spun around. The man wasn't Tawl,
but he was familiar all the same,

"Well met, my
friend," said the stranger. "'Twas a good fight, eh?" It was the
man he'd pocketed his first day in Bren: the huge chest, the wide arms, the
shiny black hair.

Nabber suppressed
his natural desire to run. There was no way the man could prove it was him.
Then he remembered the portrait. It was tucked under his belt and would give
him away as surely as falling leaves gave away autumn. He remained outwardly
calm despite the turmoil within. "Not a bad fight. Though I've seen better
in Rorn."

"Is that
where your friend is from?" The stranger's eyes glanced toward the pit.
"Rom?"

Nabber was
immediately on the defensive. "What makes you think he's a friend of
mine?"

"I watched
you working the crowd for him. Quite a job-reviving betting and then saving his
skin at the end." The stranger smiled, showing white teeth. "Nice
trick thathaving a boy in the crowd."

"I ain't
nobody's boy," said Nabber.

"I saw you
follow him the other night," said the man. "After he beat that young lance
from out of town,"

Nabber decided to
change tactics. "What's it to you?" The man shrugged, his whole body
becoming taut for the barest instant. Nabber suddenly realized what he was
dealing with: a contender.

"Perhaps I
should introduce myself," he said. "I'm Blayze, the duke's
champion."

Impressed, but
determined not to show it, Nabber said,

"My, my,
shouldn't you be busy defending the duke, then, rather than hanging around on
street corners?"

The man ignored
the jibe-Nabber had to give him credit for that. "I like to keep an eye on
the competition, and your golden-haired friend is the only decent fighter I've
seen in a long while."

"Just as well
for you, really."

Another shrug.
"Makes no difference to me, boy, I beat all comers." He was confident
without being arrogant, and well spoken-for a fighter.

"Need a
decent fight, do you," said Nabber, "to help raise your favor?"

The man who he now
knew to be called Blayze, pulled away a little. "I'm not about to waste my
time talking with a boy whose tongue is quicker than his wits. Now, unless
you're willing to admit you know the lance who just won in the pit, I'm
off." He turned and began to walk away.

"Tawl,"
shouted Nabber. "His name is Tawl and he's from the Lowlands."
Friendship was one thing, but on a night like this when the coinage shone
brighter than any oil lamp, it was difficult to believe that anything mattered
more than money and its making. Besides, what was the harm of telling Blayze a
name?

The man carried on
walking. "Arrange a meet for me. Two days from now at sundown by the three
golden fountains." He never turned around to discover if his words had
been heard, he merely slipped into the crowd. A few seconds later, Nabber
spotted him making his way down the street. He was accompanied by a slight
figure who was both cloaked and hooded.

Nabber took all
his markers and snapped them. No chance of finding who they belonged to now. No
chance of finding Tawl, either. The knight had left the pit. Even if he
were
to find Tawl, he would never agree to come to a meeting set up by him. It
was probably for the best. Blayze had the look of a man who wasn't used to
losing; a full compliment of front teeth and a straight nose were rare sights
in fighters. And the body! Nabher whistled in appreciation. More muscles than a
shipful of sailors. Tawl wouldn't stand a chance.

Or would he?
Nabber began to make his way toward Brotheling Street. Tawl had a unique talent
that owed more to rage than to muscle, so perhaps the outcome was anything but
certain. One thing that was certain, though, was that there was loot to be made
here. Plenty of it. The duke's champion fighting the latest sensation in Bren,
Nabber could almost hear the sound of money spinning about the pit. This was
just the sort of earner that Swift spent his days dreaming of-and it was his
for the taking!

As Nabber walked
up the street, he felt an unfamiliar sensation. Like bellyache, only higher and
deeper, it formed a tight band around his chest. He tried ignoring the feeling
at first and set his thoughts upon solving the problem of how he was going to
get Tawl to agree to a meet with Blayze. However, the pain wouldn't go away. It
niggled and chided and allowed him no peace. Despite his attempts to pass it
off as an unusually high case of indigestion, Nabber knew in his heart it was
guilt.

Melli drifted
through the hazy clouds between waking and sleeping. Some tiny still-lucid part
of her brain hinted that sleep was best. Some large still-active part of her
belly swore that it was.

Cheap Halcus wine
and exotic southern liqueurs didn't mix. She'd paid the price for their
incompatibility all day. Rolling along a bumpy road in a wagon that was
obviously built before Borc's first coming hadn't helped much, either. She was
sick and feeling sorry for herself.

Her brain defied
her stomach and set a course for full waking. Without opening her eyes, she was
aware that it was late. The light filtering through the tissue of her eyelids
was low and golden; candlelight, and the cries of owls and wolves had found
their way into her dreams for some time now. The smell of incense and almonds
was as strong as ever, and she realized, rather belatedly, the wagon was no
longer moving.

She heard the door
open and then felt a flurry of cold air race in. Fiscel's voice said: "Alysha,
I want a word alone." Melli kept her eyes closed and lay very still.

"Lorra."
It was Alysha's low and alluring voice. "Go outside for a while."

"But it's
cold and dark. I was nearly asleep-"

"Go
now," said Alysha, cutting the young girl's complaints short. "Or I
will make you stay out the whole night."

"You wouldn't
dare."

Alysha laughed.
"You're no great prize, Lorra. Your flesh would fetch as much dead as
alive."

Melli tried hard
not to shudder, but the coldness of the woman's words was too much. The sound
of the door slamming was testament to their sting. Lorra had obviously decided
not to take Alysha up on her threat.

Fiscel spoke
softly, "Is the new girl all right?"

The rustle of silk
suggested a shrug. "She will live. Her stomach reacted to the herbs in the
nais, that's all."

"Are you sure
she is asleep?"

"She hasn't
stirred all day."

"Good,"
said Fiscel. "We must talk about what you saw last night."

Melli now realized
what the dull pressure was in her abdomen: she badly needed to relieve herself.
Having grasped this, she became desperate and slowly curled her body into a
ball.

The voices of both
people had dropped even lower. Alysha was speaking. "She is trouble. It is
bad luck to even travel with her."

"What makes
you so sure of this? How do I know that what you say isn't a drunken woman's
fancy?"

"You know me
better than that, Fiscel," hissed Alysha. "Only last winter I saved
your skin by warning you when the storm would hit. Ignore my warning this time
at your own risk." The chink of glasses was followed by the pouring of
liquid. The sound was torture to Melli's bladder.

"What are you
saying, then?"

"I'm saying
that we should sell her as soon as possible, lest we become victims of her
fate."

"But I had
plans to take her across the drylands," said Fiscel. "One such as her
would be worth a fortune in Hanatta."

"Hanatta is
months away. I say we get rid of her before the moon wanes."

Why was she such a
liability? Melli cast her mind back to the evening before. There was drinking,
a little eating, more drinking and then-Melli's body stiffened under the light
wool blanket then there was the testing. A wave of nausea rippled through her
body. She swallowed hard to keep the bile from her mouth. That foul woman had
done something to her, something dirty and shocking. Her eyes stung and she was
forced to open them the barest fraction to let out the tears. In that one
second, she glimpsed Fiscel and Alysha; they were distorted by the salt water
and looked like monsters. Melli, who had long prided herself on her
fearlessness, suddenly felt alone and afraid.

Her knife, which
for days now had been her main source of comfort, began to seem like a useless
toy. Even now she could feel its metal-coolness against her side. Only Borc
knew how she had managed to hold on to it after the dress-splitting of the
night before. But it wasn't important anymore. These two people, who were
calmly discussing her fate in much the same way as her father must have done
while arranging her betrothal to Kylock, had the power of life or death over
her. That sort of power could not be challenged by a knife.

Apparently she did
have another weapon, though. They were wary of her. Alysha must have discovered
something during her testing and Melli doubted that it was the ghones.

"We pass
Highwall tomorrow. You know people there." It was Alysha again.

"No,"
said Fiscel. "Too close to the initial transaction. Word could reach the
good captain, and our guarantee of safe passage through Halcus might be
withdrawn." There was a faint rustle as Fiscel adjusted his position.
"If you're so set on being rid of her, then the best I can do is Bren. If
the weather holds, we'll be there in less than a week."

"The same
contact as before?"

"Yes. He'll
pay a fair price, but our friend in Hanatta would pay us double."

"If we ever
reach Hanatta." Alysha's voice became harsh. "Where I come from, we
call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into
their service. And what they can't bend they steal."

Melli was shocked.
What was in her that was so dangerous? For some reason her thoughts turned to
Jack. She remembered the day in the pig farmer's cottage when she'd been given
a glimpse into the future. Jack's future. If Alysha had uncovered some of this,
then it was Jack's fate she was seeing, not hers. Or was she fooling herself?
Melli ran through what little she remembered of the vision. She had been there
alongside him!

She was out of her
depth. Fate, visions, sorcery: it was all madness. Her father had spent a
lifetime denying such things existed. She loved him for that. Strange to
believe that before meeting Jack she would have agreed with him.

Melli turned her
attention back to the two people who were deciding what would become of her.

"We'll head
for Bren, then," Fiscel was saying. "While we're there I'll pick up a
replacement."

"As you
wish."

Silk rustled
softly at first and then the light from the candle dimmed as someone passed in
front of it. There was a peculiar slurping sound followed by a sharp intake of
breath.

Melli risked opening
her eyes. Alysha was naked from the waist up and Fiscel was kissing her
breasts. The raven-haired woman seemed impervious to the caress and stood, back
straight as a spear, staring straight ahead. Melli closed her eyes again. She'd
seen enough.

There was no way
of knowing how long she lay awake, listening to the small, desperate noises of
Fiscel's lovemaking. But when it was over and Lorra returned to the wagon once
more, she'd never been more grateful for silence.

Maybor cursed his
stays for the third time in less than an hour. He cursed his dead horse, too.
He thought for a few minutes and then cursed Baralis as well.

They were
approaching Bren. The city walls gleamed like steel. In their shadows awaited
the cause of Maybor's bad temper: the delegation sent to greet them. Only
minutes now before they met. Crucial minutes when people who counted would make
their judgments. And here he was, sitting on a horse that was not his own, with
a blanket tucked beneath the saddle to cushion his backside, dressed in the
same cloak he'd been wearing for nearly a week!

Baralis, Borc rot
his soul, had destroyed the trunk that carried his magnificent ermine cloak
when rescuing Crope from the avalanche. What was one dead servant compared to
the loss of a fine cloak? Still, at least the rest of his new and hastily made
wardrobe was intact, and a man only needed a cloak if he intended to venture
out into the cold.