A Man Betrayed (22 page)

Maybor urged his
horse forward; he wanted no one to doubt that he was leader of this party.
Horns sounded and the delegation from Bren swept forward to meet him.

"We wish you
welcome on this fine day, Lord Maybor," said the herald. "Your
presence does honor to our city."

"It is I who
am honored to be here," replied Maybor, pleased that they knew who he was.

"We beg the
privilege of accompanying you to the palace, where the duke awaits."

"I am content
to follow your lead." Maybor inclined his head graciously, took up a
position at the front of the delegation, and rode into the city of Bren.

It was nothing
like he had expected. The sheer scale of the place overwhelmed him; it made
Harvell seem like a backwater. The roads were laid with cobble and stone. Tall
buildings crowded close, and people lined the streets in their thousands.
Soldiers were everywhere, accompanying their entourage, keeping back the
crowds, their longswords hooked but not sheathed at their waists. The duke was
obviously a man who understood the value of a silent threat.

The sound of
people cheering was music to Maybor's ears. He had not wanted this match, but
it was plain to see that there was glory in it, and he was determined to have
his share. He waved to the crowd and they responded with vigor, calling and
waving their banners. There was a likeness painted on many of these banners and
it took Maybor a while to realize that the handsome smiling face was supposed
to be Kylock. Handsome the new king might be, but he couldn't recall ever
having seen him smile.

Before he knew it
they were approaching the palace gates. The drab browns and grays of the crowd
gave way to the deep blue of the ceremonial guard. The gates swung open and
Maybor found himself looking at the granite stronghold that formed the duke's
palace. He took a sharp intake of breath; an ill-advised move, for his still
tender lungs were not used to such force and retaliated by contracting
violently.

Caught between the
awe inspired by the palace and the inconvenience of stifling a coughing fit,
Maybor came faceto-face with the duke. Garon of Bren wore the blue of his
soldiers and the same naked sword at his waist. He was lean like a fighter, and
his most imposing feature was his elegant hooked nose. The duke brought his
horse alongside of Maybor's and held out his arm in welcome. The two men
clasped hands in the military fashion, each careful to show no weakness of
grip. The courtyard was packed with people; everyone from noblemen to grooms
was silent, eager to hear what passed between the two.

"I bid you
welcome, friend," said the duke.

Maybor was aware
that all eyes were upon him. He searched his mind for just the right words to
impress the court of Bren. "On behalf of His Royal Highness King Kylock,
sovereign of the Four Kingdoms," he said, "I am honored to accept
your hospitality."

The fool, thought
Baralis, as the crowd began to murmur nervously. Now was neither the time nor
place to let Bren know that the old king was dead.

The duke's face
paled visibly. There wasn't a man in the courtyard who didn't notice it.
Baralis knew the duke well; he wasn't the kind of man to show any emotion in
public, and the fact that his face had paled was a sign more telling than a
murderous rage. Maybor would die for this! The news would be around the city
before they sat down for the welcoming feast.
Kylock is now a king,
they
would say,
and the duke was shocked to hear it!

Baralis urged his
horse forward. All eyes were drawn by the movement. Maybor sent him a look
filled with loathing-the man had no sense of discretion, The duke acknowledged
his presence with a slight incline of his head. When he spoke his voice was
cold.

"Lord
Baralis, perhaps you can tell me when King Lesketh died."

Baralis looked
into the calculating eyes of a hawk. "The king died peacefully in his
sleep
two weeks after we left Harvell, Your Grace. A messenger was dispatched
with the news."

"His Highness
begged me to inform you that he is still eager for the match." It was
Maybor, determined not to be left out of the reckoning.

The Hawk of
Bren-for that was how he was known to his enemies--ignored Maybor's comments.
Raising a gloved hand, he turned his horse and made his way back toward the
palace. His retinue followed him through to the inner courtyard. Baralis and
Maybor were borne along with the crowd.

The duke had ill
liked learning of Lesketh's death along with the stableboys and grooms. It
should have been handled differently. The duke should have heard the news in
private, and it should have been left for him to decide how and when to tell
his people.

Baralis rubbed his
aching hands together. Perhaps there was something to be gained from the
slackness of Maybor's tongue. The duke was a proud man and would not look
kindly on anyone who made him look a fool. Baralis searched for the duke's
figure in the crowd. He had dismounted and was giving instructions to his
equerry. Once finished he slipped away through a small side door. Not wasting a
second, Baralis dismounted and followed him.

This was the old
part of the palace. The damp stone proclaimed its age. Many centuries ago it
had been a fortress and then a castle and later a mighty citadel. Baralis
marveled at the skill of the artisans; they had created a magnificent disguise.
The structure had the look of a gracious palace, but it was fortified for war.

The whole city was
ringed with walls. Like a tree each ring marked growth, each successive duke
had strengthened the battlements in a thousand small and unassuming ways. It
would be a foolish army that underestimated the defenses of the city of Bren.

Baralis reached
out and touched the stone wall; it was almost a caress.

"Do I detect a
trace of proprietorship in your touch, Lord Baralis?" It was the duke, his
voice cold and without humor.

"No,"
said Baralis, turning to face him. "Merely admiration."

"Then I
suppose I should feel flattered," said the duke. "Not
threatened."

He was quick, too
quick. Baralis searched for a way to draw the conversation away from such a
dangerous, and fundamental, subject. "I am here to offer my apologies for
Lord Maybor's indiscretion."

"Apologies
hold no interest to me, Lord Baralis. Has Kylock taken any action against the
Halcus?"

The Hawk had gone
straight for the heart. Already he was considering the effect of Kylock's
kingship on his northern neighbors. Baralis was well pleased that they were
alone: there was no one here to contradict the lie. "Petty border
squabbles are of little interest to Kylock. His eyes are turned inward to the
court."

The duke was not
convinced. "The city of Bren thought it was getting a prince."

"And how long
did you expect him to keep that title? It was no secret that Lesketh had more
use for a sickbed than a crown."

"I expected
Kylock to stay a prince until the marriage was consummated." The duke took
a step forward and his face emerged from shadow. "Let's name trouble
plainly, Lord Baralis. The north is already nervous of this match. Kylock being
crowned is ill tidings. Kylock winning battles is a threat."

"I haven't
noticed you playing peacemaker."

"Bren's
policies are my concern, not yours," said the duke.

"Even when
those policies affect everyone in the southeast?" Baralis was not so
easily intimidated into silence. "Tyren was lucky to find an ally in Bren,
as he's sadly lacking in friends elsewhere."

"The knights
are being persecuted. Bren offers them safe haven."

"Tell me,
Your Grace," said Baralis, "since when did joining Bren's forces on
the battlefield count as safe haven?" The duke's face hardened to muscle.
There was no fat to fill out either lip or cheek. "Tyren is free to do as
he wishes. No one forced him to aid my causes."

"Such a
convenient little friendship. You make sure that no one interferes with their
trade and they help fight and finance your battles." The duke was about to
speak, but Baralis raised a warning hand and halted the words in his throat.
"Do not talk to me about the nervousness of the north, Your Grace, when
well you know that it is
Bren
they are wary of, not the kingdoms."

The duke's hand
encircled the hilt of his sword. Jewels flashed between his fingers. "Lord
Baralis," he said, "I will give you this warning once, and I advise
you to heed it well. Do not make the mistake of challenging me. You may hold
power at Harvell, but here in Bren my will is law. I tell you now, this
marriage will go ahead only if I see fit to let it. And no second-rate nobleman
from a court too long stagnant will influence me either way." The duke
turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Baralis to swallow his words.

Tavalisk was
fingering his flute. He felt too weak to blow. Four days of cutting down on his
food had damned near finished him off! Hunger made him vicious. Already this
afternoon he had planned a suitable program of punishment for his physicians, a
new method of torture for all the knights in his dungeons, and a way to fine
all musicians. This burst of brilliance had only served to hone his appetite
further, and now the archbishop's mind was firmly on his next meal.

His one and only
consolation was at his side:
The Book of Words
by Marod. If ever he
needed a good reason to live as long as possible, all he had to do was glance
at the book to find one. Conflict in the Known Lands was almost certain and
according to Marod, he, Tavalisk, had a key part in its outcome. The archbishop
had no intention of dying before he'd had a chance to play his role to the
fullest.

With that thought
in mind, he pulled his bell cord. The physicians were wrong: missing supper
would kill him more quickly than a thousand feasts.

Unfortunately his
aide answered the call. "Gamil, I rang in the hope I might be fed, not
bored."

"I thought
the physicians had advised a diet of bread and music, Your Eminence."

"I've had
enough of music this week to last me a lifetime. I swear I will have every
musician in Rom flogged and strung." Tavalisk smiled sweetly. "Do you
play, Gamil?"

"Alas, Your
Eminence, I have no skill with music."

"One day you
must tell me exactly where your skills lie. l, for one, have seen no evidence
of anything. special except an extraordinary capacity to annoy me." The
archbishop reached over and jabbed his cat with his flute. The creature hissed
most rewardingly. Music did have its uses, after all. "Since you're here,
Gamil, you might as well tell me what you learned on your latest foray."

"The spy has
been brought in, Your Eminence. I took the liberty of questioning him-"

"You took the
liberty, Gamil!" interrupted Tavalisk, annoyed that he'd missed out on the
fun of a good torture. "You mean you had someone interrogated without my
knowledge or consent?"

"I thought
Your Eminence would be pleased by my initiative."

"If I'd
wanted initiative, Gamil, I would never have employed you in the first
place." Tavalisk's little finger was caught in one of the air holes of the
flute. Realizing that this was not a good time to look undignified, he buried
his hand and the attached instrument beneath his robe. "One more lapse
like this and I will be forced to take the initiative of having you dismissed.
Now carry on."

Gamil's face was a
study of barely concealed malice. "The Old Man has sent two of his cronies
to Bren. Apparently they left the city two days back."

"Hmm. Then
revenge for Bevlin's death is imminent. The Old Man is obviously seeking to
assassinate the knight." Tavalisk was busily trying to work his finger
free of the flute. "Did our former spy show any remorse for his
treachery?"

"Just before
the rack dislocated his left arm, he did express a degree of repentance."

"That is
gratifying to hear, Gamil. I must commend you on your judicious use of
torture." Tavalisk suspected he had pushed his aide a little far and was
seeking to neutralize the threat. "Anything else?"

"The Knights
of Valdis are becoming bolder, Your Eminence. Ever since they gained Bren's
support, they have done nothing but cause us trouble. The rumors about them
seizing all of Rom's cargoes heading north are true. Ten cartloads of salted
fish and seventy bolts of finest silk were taken just past Ness."

Tavalisk was
pleased to hear it. Now at last he could take firm action against Tyren and his
circular friends. And he was just in the right sort of mood to take the
offensive. "Send letters out to Toolay, Marls, and Camlee, demanding that
they each supply five hundred troops to help guarantee the safe passage of
southern cargoes. Tell them that Rorn will be committing a similar
number." The archbishop considered for a moment. "Rom's five hundred
will have orders to kill any knights they encounter-even ones who are not
engaged in the confiscation of goods."

"But, Your
Eminence, the other powers won't agree to patrol the trade routes if Rom is
acting out a personal vendetta."

"The other
powers won't know about the order until it is too late. When one of our men
finally butchers a knight on neutral territory, he will not be seen as acting
for Rom alone."

"Thereby
implicating the other southern powers."

"Exactly,
Gamil! Toolay and Marls might as well save their breath; nothing indicts more
surely than a vigorous denial. Anyway, there'll probably be little time for
finger pointing; these things have an uncanny way of escalating." The
archbishop managed a wistful sigh.

"Your
Eminence is most cunning."

"Thank you,
Gamil." In his excitement, Tavalisk had stuffed his finger even deeper
into the flute. Beneath the fabric of his cloak, he tried desperately to pull
the two apart. "Of course, this will require delicate handling."