A Man Betrayed (3 page)

The first man came
forward. Knife before him, he slashed wildly at the air. Jack fell upon him. It
was the only way to describe it. Melli felt she was seeing him for the first
time: he was wild with fury. What he lacked in skill, he made up for in rage.
It seemed to Melli that Jack was fighting much more than the man beneath him.
In the struggle--which the stranger was destined to lose-Jack was fighting
against fate and circumstance and even perhaps himself. Every vicious blow was
a strike against something less substantial, yet more threatening than his
opponent.

The second man
moved forward. Melli screamed a warning. "Jack! Look out! He's behind
you." He swung around and the man, probably scared at what he saw in
Jack's face, fled. He ran awkwardly through the thick snow, leaving deep pits
where his feet had stepped.

The first man was
dead: a pig-knife to the gut. Jack stood up. He would not look at her. He'd
stumbled into the but and she'd followed, carefully skirting the body and the
blood.

Neither had
mentioned it since. Melli's thoughts were another matter. Jack was growing more
withdrawn. He was as considerate as ever, yet there was something within him
that could quickly turn and show an edge. The Halcus soldier had seen the
sharpness of it. In a way, Melli was grateful the man had been killed by a
knife; the alternative was worse. Jack had a greater potential for destruction
within him than an armory of blades.

Melli was secretly
intrigued by the thought of sorcery. Oh, she'd been taught as a child that it
was evil, and that it was only practiced by those close with the devil. Her
father flatly refused to believe in it, saying it was a thing out of legend
like dragons and fairies, but she'd heard tales here and there. Tales that told
of how at one time, sorcery was common in the Known Lands, and that people who
used it were neither good nor bad. Surely Jack was proof of this?

If anything, since
she'd witnessed his power the day they'd escaped from the mercenaries, she
found herself more attracted to him. Before he had been almost a boy: unsure of
himself and awkward, with long legs and long hair. The power he'd drawn seemed
to fill him out, like fluid poured into a waterskin. His presence was more
compelling, his body more his own. He was maturing fast, and sorcery, with all
its accompanying hearsay and heresy, endowed him with an aura that Melli found
hard to resist.

Jack had his
weaknesses, though. Melli worried in case the bitterness she had glimpsed in
his attack upon the Halcus soldier might settle and form part of the man.

Suddenly Melli
didn't feel like laughing anymore. She resisted the urge to unplug the knot
hole and check the horizon one more time. They had paid dearly for this chicken
coop, and there might yet be an even higher price to pay.

As if reading her
thoughts, Jack spoke to comfort her. "Don't worry. No one will come,"
he said. "The soldier can't have gone far, and even if he made it to a
village, no one is about to go chasing the enemy in this weather."

It was her fault.
If she hadn't spoken up in warning, the man would never have known where they
came from. Yet she had, and the sound of the lilting accent of the Four
Kingdoms had been clearly heard. If she had only kept silent, the man might
have mistaken them for his own. He would, of course, have been no less pleased
about having his shelter and his companion taken from him. But such incidents
were all too common in both countries, and it might have gone overlooked. Until
she spoke.

Now the man who
had escaped across the snowy field knew they were from the kingdoms. If he were
to make it to a village, he could bring whatever forces were at hand down upon
them with just two words: "The enemy."

The Halcus hated
the Four Kingdoms with the deep hate that only comes with closeness. Neighbors
they had been for centuries, but everyone knows it's one's neighbors one
despises the most. The war had raged bitterly for five years now; the same war
over the same river that had been fought countless times before. More blood
than water flowed along the River Nestor's bitterly disputed banks. The
kingdoms had the advantage at the moment: a fact that served to make the Halcus
hate them all the more.

"He might not
have recognized your accent. You only said a few words." Jack took three
strides across the coop and was beside her.

Melli shook her
head gently and offered her hand. He took it and they stood side by side, and
listened to the sound of the advancing storm. They were trapped here; fleeing
under these conditions would surely bring a more certain death than staying put
and hoping no one would come. As long as the storm raged, they would be safe.
Only fools and the love-sick dared to venture out in a blizzard.

Her hand rested in
his. There was no pressure in his touch, but part of her wished that there was.
Inexplicably, her thoughts turned toward the king's chancellor, Lord Baralis.

And then, as she
realized the common thread between the past and the present, she withdrew her
hand from Jack's. It was the touch; a touch remembered-many weeks back now -a
touch that thrilled and repulsed in one. The memory of Baralis' hand upon her
spine. Curious how the mind weaves its associations, sometimes weaving with
unlooked-for irony. Two men, both with more than muscle to lend them strength.

Melli wondered if
she had offended Jack by withdrawing her hand. She couldn't tell. He was so
difficult to read, and the time they'd spent together had only made him more
so. She couldn't begin to guess what he thought of her. That he cared for her
safety was the only thing she knew for certain. The force with which he had
pushed her away from the two men was proof of that.

Still, what did he
think of her? A court lady, daughter of Lord Maybor. A noblewoman standing next
to a baker's apprentice.

Sometimes Jack was
tormented in his sleep. With eyes closed and face slick with sweat, he would
toss restlessly on his bedroll, calling words she seldom caught the meaning of.

Just over two
weeks back, within the shelter of an evergreen wood, he'd had his worst night
of all.

Melli had awoken,
she knew not why. It was one of those rare nights when the wind had ceased and
the cold stopped biting. Instinctively she looked over to Jack. She could tell
right away he was having a nightmare. His cheeks were hollow and the tendons on
his neck were raised and taut. He became agitated, pushing his cloak and
blanket from his body. "No!" he murmured. "No."

Melli sat up,
deciding she would go over and wake him. Before she could stand, a chilling
sound broke the silence of the wood.

"Stop!"
cried Jack.

With that cry, the
nature of the night and the universe seemed to change. It became more vivid,
more intimate, and then more terrible. The torment and the sense of urgency
conveyed in that one word made Melli's blood run cold. Jack was silent once
more and drifted into a more restful sleep. No such sleep for her that night.
The moonlight had withdrawn upon Jack's call and now came the darkness. Melli
lay awake through the artificial stillness of the night, afraid that if she
fell asleep and then woke in the morning, the world might have changed whilst
she slept.

She shuddered and
wrapped her cloak closer. Jack was back in his corner, slicing the wet bark
from the logs. The but was too small to have a fire, and with the shutters
closed there would be no ventilation, but he prepared one anyway. He didn't
like to be idle.

Melli unplugged
the knot hole for the tenth time that day. She told herself it was to check on
the progress of the storm. But the storm was coming from the east, and Melli's
gaze was to the west. Almost blinded by the whiteness, Melli searched for
movement from the direction where the second man had headed.

Tavalisk lifted
the cloth from the cheese and inhaled deeply. Perfect. Amateurs might first
check the look of the cheese, seeing if the blue veining was substantial but
still delicate. He knew better. It was the smell that told one all one needed
to know. Blue cheese should have no mincing, milk-maid odor. No, this most regal
of cheeses should smell like a king. Preferably a dead one. Unfortunately not
everyone appreciated the smell of delicate decay wrought by the millions of
spores that burrowed their way through the virgin cheese.

Yes, mused the
archbishop, the smell was everything. Sharp, tantalizing, challenging, never
subtle. It should rise to one's nostrils like a whip to the back: unwanted at
first, and then, as one grows accustomed to its particular pleasures, welcomed
for all the delights it could bestow.

Tavalisk was a
surgeon at his table as he cut into the cheese. With his little silver knife he
freed himself a sizable wedge. Once its rind was breached the odor from the
cheese became even more intense. It was almost dizzying. The archbishop was, at
such times, as close to religious ecstasy as he was ever likely to get.

A knock sounded
upon the door.

"Enter,
Gamil." Tavalisk now found that he could tell which of his various aides
were awaiting his pleasure just by the sound of their knocking. Needless to
say, Gamil had the most annoying knock of all: timid and impatient in one.

"Good day to
Your Eminence," offered Gamil, a little less humbly than usual.

"What news
this day, Gamil?" Tavalisk did not deign to turn from his cheese.

"Your
Eminence will be most interested in the news I bring. Most interested,
indeed."

"Gamil, your
job is merely to keep me informed. My job is to decide what is
interesting." Tavalisk raised the crumbly cheese to his mouth. The sour
taste of the mold met his palette. "Come now, Gamil, out with it. Stop
sulking like a maiden with no new dress to wear at the dance."

"Well, Your
Eminence, do you remember the knight?"

"What night?
Was it moonlit or overcast?" The archbishop was beginning to enjoy
himself.

"No, Your
Eminence. The knight of Valdis, Tawl."

"Oh, you mean
the
knight.
Why didn't you say so in the first place? Of course I
remember the knight. Handsome chap. No liking for the whip, though, if I
remember correctly." Tavalisk was contemplating feeding his cat some of
the cheese.

"Does Your
Eminence remember we were having him followed as he made his way north?"

"Do you think
me a toothless dotard? I most certainly remember. There is nothing," the
archbishop showed his teeth,
"nothing,
you hear, that I ever
forget. You would do well to remember that, Gamil."

"Please
accept my apologies, Your Eminence." Tavalisk could not resist. "I
will accept your apologies, but I won't forget your impertinence." He cut
a portion of cheese and held it out to his cat. The creature took one sniff and
then beat a hasty retreat. "Carry on with your news, Gamil."

"Well, as you
suspected, the knight was headed to Bevlin's cottage."

"Do we know
what transpired in that meeting?" Tavalisk was now crouched down by the
base of the couch, trying to tempt his cat to eat the cheese.

"We do now,
Your Eminence. One of our spies made haste back to the city just to tell
us."

"He came
himself? This is most unusual. Why could he hot send a messenger?" The
archbishop had now caught the cat by its neck and was trying to force the
cheese into its mouth.

"He deemed
the news so monumental, Your Eminence, that he could not risk sharing it with
another."

"Hoping for a
promotion, is he?"

"I think when
Your Eminence finally hears what I have to say," a touch of frustration
could be heard in Gamil's voice, "that you might indeed wish to reward the
man in some small way."

"Oh, might I?
What news could this possibly be? Has Tyren been struck by lightning? Has
Kesmont risen from the dead? Or has the knight himself turned out to be Borc
incarnate?"

"No, Your
Eminence. Bevlin is dead."

Tavalisk released
his hold on the cat. He stood up slowly, his weight almost too great to bear.
In silence he walked to his desk. Selecting the finest brandy that waited
there, he poured himself a brimming glass. It did not occur to him to offer
Gamil a cup. Only after he had taken a deep draught of the potent liqueur did
he speak.

"Are you sure
of what you say? How reliable is this man?"

"The spy in
question has worked for you for over ten years, Your Eminence. His loyalty and
professionalism are beyond repute."

"How did
Bevlin die?"

"Well, our
spy turned up at Bevlin's cottage in the early hours of the morning. He looked
in through the window and saw the wiseman dead on the bench. Stabbed in the
heart. Anyway, he watched and waited, keeping a low profile, and then our
knight came into the room. He found the dead body, and then went over the
barrel, as they say."

"Over the
barrel?"

"Lost his
senses, Your Eminence. According to our man, the knight crouched there with the
dead man in his arms for over four hours--rocking him back and forth like a
baby. Our spy was just about to leave, when the young lowlife who was traveling
with the knight came in the room. The boy helped him up and so forth, but then,
as soon as he left the knight alone for a minute, the knight was off: galloping
into the sunset. The next day, having buried the body and secured the cottage,
the boy followed him west. Our spy then made haste to Rorn."

"Who killed
the wiseman?"

"That's the
strange thing, Your Eminence. Our spy had been watching the cottage from a
distance all night. No one came or went after the knight and his boy
arrived."

"Our man
didn't see the murder?"

"Alas, Your
Eminence, even spies must sleep."

The archbishop
rimmed his glass with his finger. The smell of cheese, which was being wafted
his way due to an open window, was for the moment distasteful to him. He
covered the blue-veined round with the cloth, damping the odor.