A Man Betrayed (26 page)

"But-"

"Go
now," she said, her tone inviting no contradiction. Standing up, she
started to pick the logs from the floor. Rovas had his back to the room and was
facing the fire. He didn't turn to look as they left.

The cool air
blasted against Jack. Its freshness on his lips made him aware of a sour taste
in his mouth: sorcery. Rovas had been lucky. He held his hand out, not sure if
he needed comfort, or if he was trying to give it. Tarissa clasped it tightly
and motive no longer mattered.

They walked in
silence: an unspoken agreement not to speak until they were free of the
cottage. The sky dimmed and the wind shifted, pushing them on their way. Jack's
head felt as heavy as one of Frallit's baking stones. He hadn't even been aware
that something was building inside of him. He was confused by the scene he'd
just witnessed, and angry at Rovas for losing his temper. So angry he'd been
ready to lash out. The frightening part was that sorcery was becoming so
familiar to him that he no longer noticed its presence. One step toward Tarissa
and Rovas would have been dead. Jack was sure of it. He'd done no less for
Melli.

Jack's thoughts
turned in midstep. Everything darkened. Nothing mattered except staying and
killing the man who had raped and then murdered Melli. Rovas didn't matter,
wild plans to run off to where the action was didn't matter, even Tarissa with
her soft brown hair and fingers callused by swordplay didn't matter.

"Jack, you're
hurting me." Tarissa pulled her hand away.

Startled, Jack
said, "I'm song, I was thinking about . . ." He couldn't say
"Melli," couldn't speak her name out loud. Even thinking it brought
back the horror of Rovas' words:
"When Tarissa found her, her head had
been cut
off. " To say it would risk the words becoming an image.

"Your mind is
on your friend," Tarissa said. She turned to face him; Jack saw the
mirror-image of his eyes in hers. "I'm sorry. . ."

He waited. The sky
waited, the wind in the trees waited. She had something else to say. Only she
didn't say it. She said something else, but it wasn't what she'd started.

" . . . I'm
sorry about Rovas just now."

"He is very
protective toward you. Like a father." Jack watched Tarissa's expression.
He was almost glad when it gave nothing away.

"We have no
one else except him," she said. "He took us in when we were
penniless, cared for us all these years. He asks so little in return."

"What does he
want from me, then?"

"I think you
know that. He wants you to kill the captain."

"Why?"
Strange, but by asking these questions, Jack got the impression that he was
letting Tarissa off the hook. "He and Rovas were friends once," she
said. "Or rather, business associates. A smuggler needs contacts in the
military, you know, to stop awkward searches and confiscations. To turn a blind
eye. Anyway, the captain started to get greedy, asking for a share of the
profits rather than a flat fee. Well, Rovas refused to pay it, and now he can't
transport his goods to Helch without the captain ordering them to be
seized."

"So he wants
me to rid him of his problem."

"Your
problem, too."

Jack didn't bother
to hide his bitterness. "It looks like I came along at just the right
time."

"More for me
than for Rovas." Tarissa took a few steps forward and turned her face to
the wind. "I was supposed to kill the captain that day."

The night turned
sharply into something else. Darker and deeper and bounded like a cave, Jack
felt it change for the worst. "Why you?"

Tarissa drew her
shawl close. She looked down. "Jack, don't make me answer that."

His hand was up.
He grabbed her shoulders and swung her round to face him. "Why you? Rovas
was up on the rise that day. He could have shot the captain himself."

Still looking
down, Tarissa shook her head. "I'm a better shot with a longbow."

"You're
lying."

Tarissa pulled
free of him. Turning her back, she cried, "All right! All right! If you
must know, he threatened to throw Mother and me out of the house unless I did
it for him."

Stunned, all Jack
could do was look at the back of Tarissa's head. How could a man do such a
thing? How could Rovas threaten someone he loved? Tarissa's shoulders were
shaking. She was crying. Jack wanted to put his arms around her, to protect
her, but just as he moved forward, a thought glimmered darkly into existence.
Before he knew what he was doing, he spoke it out loud, his lips forming the
words less than a hand's length from her ear:

"Rovas wanted
you to murder the captain to bind you more closely to him. Once you did it, he
would always have something to hold over you. You and Magra could never leave
him for fear that he might tell someone what you did. The deed wasn't as
important as the power it gave him." Tarissa had stopped shaking. Slowly
she turned around "You shouldn't have said that, Jack. It's not true. It's
just not true." Her voice was high, almost hysterical. Tears rolled down
her cheek. "Never say that again. Never." With that she ran away,
shawl flapping behind her, head down to avoid the wind.

Jack watched her
go. What he said had been true, and they both knew it.

One last drink
might do it. Tawl took a swig from the skin: a golden brew and probably one
he'd paid dearly for. It didn't matter. What
did
matter was forgetting.
It was the only thing he lived for.

Yet no matter how
much he drank, how ruthlessly he fought, how hard he tried, he couldn't forget.
Anna and Sara, the baby, and then Bevlin-each one had placed their trust in
him, and he'd betrayed them all. He'd failed as a man, as a brother, and as a
knight. Everything that he held dear was gone and the shell that remained felt
as cold and as deep as a grave. Except it wasn't a grave, for there at least
was peace. Or so the wisemen said.

How many days,
weeks, months had passed since Bevlin's death was impossible to say. Everything
blurred into one, and the only things that changed were the faces of the men he
fought and the quality of the ale.

It was having less
and less effect, though. Three skins he'd drunk tonight, but his arm was steady
as an oak, his steps sure as a bailiff's and his mind as clear and as sharp as
a sliver of glass.

His body had the
look of a traitor. It mocked him with its vigor; muscles were hard, skin was
taut, and tendons were poised to spring. None of it was right. He was half a
man and it was fitting that he look like one.

Two images were at
the center of his being, seared into his retina as surely as his circles were
seared into flesh. Whenever he looked at anyone or anything he saw them first.
Everything filtered through them: the small, burnt plot of ground that marked
the place where the cottage had stood, and the dead man covered in blood. No
amount of fighting or ale could make them go away. There'd been a saying at
Valdis: A man pays in
the next life for his sins, a knight pays
in
both.
Tawl hadn't understood it at the time. He did now.

"Come on,
Tawl. We'll be late if you don't hurry." Corsella grabbed his arm and
steered him down the street. She made the mistake of thinking he was drunk. He
wished he was.

"I think
there's time for him to finish the skin, my precious," said Madame Thornypurse.
The woman was up to something. She'd taken his knife away and was now
encouraging him to drink his fill.

They fell under
the shadow of the palace and moved toward the center of a large, flagged
square. Three fountains, gurgling and embellished with gold, one man dark and
well built. He stepped forward and bowed.

"Good
evening, ladies." And to Tawl, "Well met, friend."

Tawl spoke over
the simpering of the women. "I'm no friend of yours."

"Then allow
me to introduce myself. I'm Blayze, duke's champion." The man waited,
obviously used to impressing people with his title.

Tawl ignored him
and turned to Madame Thornypurse. "So this is what your scheme is.
Arranging a fight with me as the centerpiece. Haven't you earned enough from me
already?"

"My dear
Tawl, I only have your interests at heart."

Madame
Thomypurse's hand fluttered like a wounded butterfly to her throat.

Blayze raised a
beautifully arched brow. "I hardly blame your reluctance, Tawl. It is
never easy to contemplate defeat."

Madame Thornypurse
and her daughter sighed in agreement.

"Trying to
goad me, eh?" said Tawl. "Cheap tactics from a man who wears such
expensive clothes."

Blayze was not
insulted. He studied the cuff on his embroidered tunic. "Victory bought
them for me. You, too, could win such rewards." He shrugged. "Of
course, you might find yourself in a shroud."

"Popularity
flagging, is it? Need a decent victory over an opponent worthy of you?"
Tawl began to walk away. "Well, you can forget about me, I'm not prepared
to be anyone's path to glory."

"That really
doesn't surprise me, my friend. From what I've heard, glory isn't your strong
suit."

Tawl spun around.
"What have you heard?"

"I've heard
you're a Knight of Valdis, and that fighting in the pits is the least of your
sins."

Tawl was at his
throat in an instant. He knew that was what the man wanted, but it made no
difference. His failure was too new a wound to be salted. His hands grabbed
oiled and scented-skin. The muscles beneath were iron. The two women squawked
and panicked like scared hens. Blayze's neck was his. He squeezed the two
weakest points under the jaw, pressing them together. He felt a quick jab at
his side. A blade, smoothly drawn.

"Step
away," said the champion. His rasping words were backed up by a second,
more threatening jab.

From the corner of
his eye, Tawl saw two guards approaching, spears in hand. Probably alerted by
the women's screams. Tawl let Blayze go, hating his cowardice as he did so.
Even now, when there was nothing to live for, his first instinct was to save
himself. For what?

Blayze waved the
guards away. "Now is neither the time nor place for this," he said to
Tawl. "One week from now, I'll be waiting for you in the pit just south of
the palace. There we can finish what we started." He made a show of wiping
the blood from his knife. "Unless, of course, you place no value on
honor."

"There is
little honor in drawing a blade on an unarmed man." Tawl suddenly felt
tired. What did it matter? "I'll be there. Though you might find the odds
too even for your liking."

"A good
fight, fairly fought, that's all I'm after."

Tawl didn't care
what the man was saying anymore, he wanted to be away. He needed a drink. Night
had fallen, and it was the worst sort: still and cloudless. The stars were a
thousand pointing fingers. He walked away, desperate to be alone. Nothing
mattered except escaping to a place where he could forget. No longer could
lovemaking divert his thoughts. Drinking and fighting were all that was left.
So he would do what he could, and perhaps, Borc willing, his next fight might
be his last.

Maybor spat out a
mouthful of meat. It was tough and tasteless, probably peacock. He hated such
fancy stuff. Where was the venison, the pork, the beef? In front of the duke,
no doubt. There was one man who wouldn't be eating overstuffed, overfluffed,
overdone fowl. The duke ate his meat red and bloody.

Maybor surveyed
the huge banqueting table. Laden with candles and platters, tankards and bones,
around it sat the highest nobility of Bren. The men were a drab and short
haired lot. Not a beard or a bright color between them. They obviously took
their lead from the duke, who favored the unadorned style of the military. Even
now the man had his sword at the table. And what a splendid and posturing
weapon it was. Maybor thought he might get himself one; it drew the eye more
certainly than the most elaborately embroidered silk.

At least the women
didn't follow His Grace's example. Beautifully molded dresses traced curves as
tempting as anything the kingdoms had to offer. Their voices were a little
harsh, but their waists were full, and their hips sported more meat than a
brace of dead peacocks. More than one of these tempting creatures had looked
his way, and who could blame them? Amongst such dull men, he stood out like a
king. Bren might be famous for its tailors, but its weavers and dyemakers must
work in the dark.

"Was the
breast not to your liking?" It was Catherine . herself. In a room full of
beautiful women, she found no equal. Maybor had harbored every intention of
scorning her, but here, sitting by her side, fingers resting upon the same
trencher, he found himself dazzled. The portrait painter had done her an
injustice: she was magnificent. Her skin glowed, her hair shone, her lips were
formed by angels. An untouched princess poised to become a woman.

For an instant
Maybor was bemused by her comment, but quickly realized she was referring to
the fowl. "I have little taste for peacock, my lady."

"Then we must
see that you are meated." She clapped her hands and a servant hovered
close. "Venison for the lord."

A huge platter of
meat was laid before Maybor. He made a great show of picking out the fattest
joint and handing it to Catherine.

"Sir, you do
me honor."

"Lady, it is
honor enough to be in your presence." Maybor felt inordinately pleased
with himself: he'd said and done just the right thing. Baralis had heard him,
too. The king's chancellor gave him a look filled with malice. He was sitting
next to the duke's aged mother, a woman as deaf and ugly as she was old and
wrinkled.

Baralis was going
to die. There was no question about it. The how and the when were all that
needed deciding. He could allow no one to do what he did this morning and get
away with it. No one. All his tricks and fancies wouldn't save him. The king's
chancellor would rest long in the grave. Oh, but the pain had been worth it!
He'd made Baralis look a fool and a liar. If anything, Bren was turning out to
be his city; the duke was courting his favor, and Catherine was attending to
his every need like a dutiful daughter. Even the man to his left, the great and
wealthy Lord Cravin, was treating him with the respect he deserved.