A Man Betrayed (30 page)

"Mother will
see you in her chamber."

Madame Thornypurse
in her bedclothes was a sight to be reckoned with. Wearing a white sleeping
gown and cap, she looked like a hideous, vengeful angel. There was a vaguely
putrid smell in the room, probably the rat oil.

Nabber was
nervous, but determined not to show it. He took up her hand and kissed it.
"Good evening, fair lady." The fair lady was having none of it. She
snatched back her hand. "You never told me you were Blayze's
brother." Nabber shrugged. "There was no point in telling you."
He thought for a second, then added, "Besides, everyone in Bren knows of
me, I assumed you would, too." That seemed to do it. The skepticism
drained from Madame Thornypurse's face.

"So what do
you want?"

"Well, you
know you and my brother arranged to..." Nabber let the sentence dangle,
hoping that Madame Thornypurse would finish it for him.

"Give the
knight a few doses of poison?" she prompted. Nabber sucked in his breath.
Nothing in his whole life had made him as angry as those casually dropped
words. This woman was poisoning Tawl!

Before he knew it,
his knife was in his hand. He cursed its shortness. Madame Thornypurse screamed
and tried to scramble away. Nabber was hardly aware of what he was doing. He
wanted to hurt this woman badly. She cowered back in the bedclothes. Her
slippered foot protruded from the sheets. With one mighty thrust, Nabber
stabbed it. Blood spurted from the wound. Madame Thornypurse wailed
hysterically.

Corsella and the
man who'd been tending his blade burst into the room. The man was wielding his
newly sharpened knife. Corsella screamed and went to swipe at Nabber.

Nabber dodged and
found himself face-to-face with the blade.

Madame Thornypurse
was holding her foot and screaming, "Kill the little bastard!"

As feet seemed to
be working for him, Nabber stamped hard on the knife-man's toes.
"Aagh," cried the man, making the error of thrusting his blade at the
same time he was clutching his toe. Nabber shot past him in an instant.
Corsella grabbed hold of his hair and tried to wrestle him to the ground.
Nabber didn't like anyone touching his hair, and he punched Corsella hard in
the stomach.

Screams of mother
and daughter filled the air. Just as he reached the door, the knife-man caught
up with him. His face was murderous. He grabbed Nabber's arm and twisted it
hard behind his back. Nabber heard a crack as it was dislodged from the joint.
The pain brought tears to his eyes. The knife-man brought the blade to his
throat. "I'm gonna slice you to ribbons," he said, pushing the knife
forward.

In that instant
someone entered the room. Nabber heard the sliver of the knife leaving its
sheath. And then a voice familiar, "You touch that boy and you'll die
before you draw your next breath." It was Tawl.

Blood wet and
sticky trickled down Nabber's chest. The blade had found flesh. Nabber felt
faint with shock:
his flesh.
The knife-man backed away slowly. Mother
and daughter were quiet. Tawl's expression was enough to frighten anyone into silence.
Deadly silence.

The second the
blade was drawn back from his chest,

Nabber felt strong
arms about him. Their touch was the most comforting thing he'd ever felt. He
promptly fainted. The last thing he was aware of was the reassuring smell of
the knight as he carried him from the brothel.

Nabber became
aware of a dull pain in his shoulder. He shifted slightly, hoping to ease it,
but could find no relief. Apart from that he was fairly comfortable; there was
straw, not fresh but not soiled, dim light, warmth, and the unmistakable smell
of horse dung. If he was in a stable, he didn't want to know about it. Horses
were not his favorite animals.

Memories filtered
through his mind. How could he have been so foolish as to have stabbed Madame
Thornypurse? Where was his brain? And then, suddenly anxious: where was his
sack? Nabber opened his eyes immediately and looked around in the straw. No
sign of it and, to make matters worse, he was in a stable. Wooden stalls rose
up about him and various tack, bits, bridles, and other baffling horsy things,
hung from nails like holy relics. And there! Horses blowing and nickering.

As he tried to
stand up, pain shot through his shoulder. His left arm wasn't responding the
way it should; it hung limply at his side, the upper tendons badly strained.
Everything came back to him: the knife-man, the blade to his throat, Tawl to
the rescue. With his good arm he felt his throat. It was bandaged, and
something that smelled bad, which probably meant it was doing good, was smeared
on either side of the cloth.

The stall door
opened and in walked Tawl. Nabber had only seen him from the back the day
before so he was shocked at the change in the knight's appearance. His skin was
pale and dark hollows surrounded his eyes. "How are you feeling?" he
asked, placing various pots and packages down on the floor.

Nabber only had
one thought on his mind. "Where's my sack?"

"Must be back
at Thornypurse's." Rather firmly, Tawl took Nabber by the shoulders and
forced him to sit back down again. "Your left arm is out of the
socket."

"We've got to
go back and get my sack. There's a fortune in gold inside it."

Tawl ignored what
he said, closed his hand about Nabber's wrist, and then pulled sharply. With
his other hand, the knight forced the joint back into the socket.

Nabber screamed
loudly at this indignity. The pain was excruciating. His vision blurred and his
head started reeling. Still, his thoughts were on his sack. "My
contingency's gone. It took me months to ... Aagh!" he cried as an arm's
length of muscle protested at being moved. Wisely, he decided to let the newly
fixed limb rest at his side. "Took me months to build that contingency.
We've got to get it back."

Tawl shook his
head. "You're not going back there."

"Well, you
go, then."

"If I ever
decide to go back there, it will be on my own business, not yours." A hard
edge to the knight's voice stopped Nabber from pressing further. He tried a
different approach instead.

"They were
poisoning you."

"Yes. I
thought so after I was sick two days in a row."

"Blayze put
them up to it."

Tawl seemed tired,
almost disinterested. "Makes sense. Though I doubt if he intended
Thornypurse to nearly kill me. It wouldn't look so good-him beating a man who
can barely stand."

For the first
time, Nabber realized that Tawl was ill. Here he was acting like a big baby
over a sore arm and a flesh wound, while the knight had probably been given
enough poison to kill a brothelful of whores.

"Here,"
said Tawl, handing him a freshly baked loaf. "Eat this, it will help keep
your strength up."

"What about
you, the poison?"

"I'll be all
right. I caught it before it was too late." Nabber was skeptical.
"How can you be sure?"

The knight looked
down, intent on unwrapping the bundles. At first, Nabber didn't think he was
going to reply. Then after a moment he spoke. His voice was quiet, and he never
once lifted his gaze from the floor. "I learned about poisons at Valdis.
How to identify them, how to treat their effects. Thornypurse gave me hemlock:
a mistake only a novice would make. A thumbnail of leaf can kill a man, and
Blayze wanted me weakened, not dead."

"I knew there
was something wrong the next morning." Tawl shrugged. "At Valdis you
learn to monitor your body closely. I felt something eating away at my stomach,
so I readied some charcoal and swallowed it."

"Swallowed
charcoal!" Nabber was disgusted.

Tawl managed a
smile. "When it's prepared right, it forces a man to expel the contents of
his stomach."

Nabber nodded.
"I heard you throwing up, all right, if that's what you mean."

"I was rid of
the poison before it was too late. Another debt I owe to Valdis." The
knight raised a hunk of bread to his lips, but didn't bite off any. He put it
down untouched.

Nabber noticed how
badly his arms were shaking. The fact that Tawl had somehow managed to carry
him from the brothel seemed nothing short of a miracle. "Anyway, it looks
like Blayze will end up with what he wants: a vulnerable opponent."

"You can't
mean you're still going to fight him?" Nabber was horrified. "The
fight's only two days away. You're in no fit state to-"

"You're not
my keeper, boy," said Tawl. "I gave my word and I'll keep it."

There was no way
Nabber could let this happen. The knight wouldn't stand a chance against the
duke's champion. Blayze was fit and healthy, with muscles like a prize bull,
whereas Tawl looked ready for the sickbed. It was suicide! This was one of
those rare moments when the truth was called for. Nabber took a deep breath.
"Look, I'll go to Blayze and tell him the deal's off. I was the one who
got Madame Thornypurse to drag you to the meeting in the first place. It was
all my idea." He squirmed in readiness for a verbal thrashing.

Tawl's voice was
gentle. "It makes no difference now, Nabber. What has been agreed upon
cannot be undone."

A strong wave of
guilt hit Nabber just when he though he was free of it, as well. "But you
could get killed."

"Better to
die than risk dishonor." Tawl seemed to regret his words the moment they
left his mouth. Abruptly, he stood up. "Eat your food and get some rest.
I'll be back before dark."

"I think
you're the one who needs rest."

Tawl opened the
door. "I need a lot of things, Nabber, but right now I'll make do with a
drink." The knight dropped the latch and left Nabber alone in the hay.

Bailor, head of
the duke's household, sat in the most comfortable room in the duke's palace:
his own. For seventeen years now, ever since His Grace had come to power, it
had not been considered fashionable to have chambers more luxurious than the
duke. This had proven rather difficult for the court to, bear, as the duke was
an austere man with more liking for simplicity than sophistication.

Though he didn't
mind the show of it. Indeed, the palace itself was more magnificent than ever:
two beautiful new courtyards, a domed ceiling, fountains, and stained glass.
The building of beautiful distractions had served to conceal the building of
greater fortifications. Arrow loops had been recut to run lengthwise, square
towers were pulled down and round ones built in their place. All the roofs had
been raised to a slope and the crenellations along the battlements had been
shuttered with iron. Yes, the duke was a man of simple tastes: invasion and
protection.

And women.

Bailor stood up
and went over to the window. It was shuttered with wood, but hinges were
currently being cast that were strong enough to take the weight of metal
sheets.

The ladies would
not like those. Not that the ladies counted in Bren.

It was time to do
business. Bailor had noticed of late that the duke grew rapidly bored of the
women that were brought to him. They were all beautiful-a few exquisitely
so-most to some degree cultured, and every one of them was young and willing.
Now, normally Bailor wouldn't mind His Grace's short attention span; after all,
what the duke finished with one day was his the next, but the man was becoming
irritable, blaming him for picking women with no life, no intelligence. What
did His Grace expect? He had neither the time nor inclination to bother with
wooings and clandestine affairs. He simply wanted to bed a woman and have done
with it; yet he still expected, indeed demanded, that these women be fine and
cultured like the ladies of the court.

Bailor spent a
good part of every day searching for such women. He had contacts in. Camlee,
Annis, and Highwall, knew flesh-traders from Tyro and Chelss, was friends with
impoverished nobles with young daughters, and had spies in all the convents.
Everything he had-his high position, his fine rooms, his well-stocked coffers,
and his wideranging responsibilities--depended solely on his ability to find
women for the duke.

Daughters of the
high nobility would not go near the man. The risk to their precious reputations
was too great: the duke had never been known to compensate a girl for her
shame. Of course, the truly difficult part was ensuring that these women were
virgins. The duke insisted on that above anything else.

Altogether it made
for a difficult task, but one that the head of the duke's household would never
dream of relinquishing to another. It formed the foundation of his power base.

Bailor had started
young: carrying love notes between lovers as a boy. One day a certain young
lady of high birth had pleaded with him for his help. She was in love, but her
feelings were not returned. She was desperate, cried prettily and was willing
to pay. Five golds it cost her for the love potion. Such substances were
frowned upon in Bren as the devil's handiwork and no decent woman dared to use
them. He'd never looked back. Drugs, potions, erotica, young women, and young
boys: he could get anything for anybody. The court depended on him and paid
handsomely for his silence.

Quickly, Bailor
shrugged off the silk he wore around his chambers and donned the wool and linen
expected of a man of his ranking. He had learned long ago that not only was it
wise to appear modest, but it made for better bargaining, as well.

He made his way
down to the small reception room he called his own. It was as sparse as his
private rooms were sumptuous. A man was waiting for him. A deformed and ugly
cripple: Fiscel the flesh-trader.

"No need to
get up, my friend," he said, repulsed at the sight of the man struggling
from a chair. "How are you this day?"

"I am well.
The pass was smooth." Tiny drops of spittle sprayed over the desk. Bailor
resisted the urge to draw his hand away.