A Man Betrayed (48 page)

There was muscle
damage, too. He would need leeching to encourage the blood to flow through the
tissue. Upward he traveled. His brain was swollen from the sleeping draughts.
Envisioning the unnatural substances as debris, Tawl concentrated on sweeping
them away with his blood. Next he went downward to his stomach. There was some
minor internal bleeding: a legacy of either the hemlock or the fight. A gentle
constriction of the blood vessels would give the lining a chance to heal. His
kidney was recovering from a wellplaced blow; there was a little swelling, but
nothing that wouldn't mend on its own.

Finally, Tawl
traveled to his limbs. A myriad of damaged veins and arteries caused him to
switch his path like logs across a road. Blayze had given him a score of
bruises, some barely registering, while others, like the one on his left shin,
were surrounded by pools of yellowing blood. Tawl worked quickly, forcing blood
through vessels that were threatening to close and drawing the flow away from
ones that were too weak to bear the strain.

The last thing he
came to were his circles. The burn was healing slowly. Skin was forming around
the scab. Pink and shiny, fragile as a newborn babe, it was beginning to bridge
the gap. It would be many months before his arm was fully recovered. There was
nothing Tawl could do to quicken the process-even Valdis had its limits.

The monitoring
complete, Tawl drew his mind from his body. A slight dizziness accompanied the
shift. The doctors had done a good job. He'd be left with a few more scars but
little permanent damage. A wiry smile crossed his lips; it was obviously going
to take more than one man to kill him. Nabber was nowhere to be seen. He was
probably off somewhere looking for loot or trouble. He'd probably find it, too.
Tawl smiled again, this time with real pleasure. There was no one like Nabber
for getting himself into trouble.

A full ale skin
lay resting upon the table. Tawl picked it up, unstoppered the cap, and began
to pour the contents onto the fire. When the skin was half empty, he raised it
to his lips and took a healthy swig. Never again would he lose himself to
drink, but it wasn't in his nature to live like a saint. One mouthful was enough,
though, and the rest of the ale he sent hissing to the flames.

It was time to
deal with the past. Slipping his knife through his belt, Tawl made his way
across the kitchens. A pretty maid showed him the way out and then hinted that
she was free most evenings. He bowed deeply, tempted by her offer, yet
declining it all the same. She was too young, too innocent, and he needed too
much. He would strip her of all her illusions.

Outside the air
was cold. The wind cut past his cheeks, clearing away any last traces of
drowsiness. His chest pained him as he walked toward the gatehouse. The palace
guards waved him through the gate. Shadows grew longer as he watched, and by
the time he'd made his way across the square, they'd all merged into one and
named themselves the night.

Bevlin was dead.
To complete his quest now would be meaningless;
he
didn't know why the
boy was important, or what he was fated to do. Tawl brushed his hair from his
eyes.

It wasn't that
simple, but it would do for a start. He had to bring order to his life. He was
no longer a knight, but he'd lived by Valdis' code for so long that it had made
him who he was. Discipline and duty ran deep within his veins. The need to be
worthy ran even deeper. Es
nil hesrl. I
am not worthy. They were the
last words on every knight's lips, and doubtless he'd die with them on his own.
Valdis would follow him to the grave.

Tawl lifted his
bandaged arm. Surely there was some way to make amends for his mistakes. Not
public amendshe was long past caring what other people thought-but personally,
for himself. Forgiveness could never be his, so all he could hope for was a
sense that his sins weren't committed in vain. The only thing he had to hold on
to was his newly sworn oath to the duke. There at least was a chance to serve
someone well; with honor, if he were blessed.

He had taken the
oath entirely aware of what it meant. He wasn't drunk with liquor or punches,
or lightheaded from loss of blood. He was stone cold sober. It marked the end
of his knighthood and his quest, and knowing that he spoke it gravely. In a way
it was little more than an official declaration of what he'd known since the
night he'd murdered Bevlin: there was no going back. The oath was his way of
severing all ties with the past.

Taking a turn-off,
Tawl found himself in a narrow street lined by dark buildings. The full moon,
which had shown itself earlier, was hidden behind chimneys and slates. A foot
fall, light as a landing bird, sounded in the distance behind him. Without
conscious thought, Tawl's hand stole toward his knife. There were two of them.
The breeze carried their odors and they disturbed more rats than one man alone.

Out came the
blade, not a sound to mark its passing. Tawl slowed down and gave his pursuers
chance to catch him. He counted to twelve and then turned around to meet them.
He hoped they were well armed; it would be good to die fighting. Just as he
leapt forward, a man's voice cried out:

"Here, Tawl!
Leave it out. We didn't come all the way from Rorn to be murdered down a dark alley,
did we, Clem?"

Clem shook his
head. "No, Moth."

Tawl struggled to
right himself. He couldn't believe it. What were two of the Old Man's cronies
doing following him? An instant later he answered his own question: they'd come
to Bren to kill him for Bevlin's murder. Only they didn't look very murderous.

"I see you
finally got your hands on some nice weaponry," said Moth, eyeing his
blade. "Course, Clem's got a better one, ain't you, Clem?"

Clem nodded
enthusiastically.

"I see you're
a little surprised to see us, my friend," continued Moth. "I must say
we're a little surprised to be here. Never thought we'd get to see the
beautiful brazen battlements of Bren, did we, Clem?"

"Not the
brazen battlements. No, Moth."

Tawl didn't know
how to react. Part of him wanted to clasp both men's arms and take them for a
drink. Another part of him felt too ashamed to do anything but wait and
discover their purpose. How much did the Old Man know?

"You're a
difficult man to track down, my friend. If it wasn't for Clem here, we would
never have found you."

"How was
that, Moth?" asked Clem.

"Well, you
were the one who insisted we take a walk in the full moon."

Clem smiled
proudly. "That I did, Moth."

"So the
credit's all yours, Clem."

"But you were
the one who spotted him, Moth."

"You have a
point there, Clem. I say we both did the Old Man proud."

"Why are you
here?" demanded Tawl. He had the distinct feeling that, if left to their
own devices, Moth and Clem could carry on like that all night. "Have you
come to take me to the Old Man?"

"Not at all,
my friend. You wouldn't be standing here if that was the plan. Would he,
Clem?"

Moth had a point.
Last time Tawl had encountered them he hadn't even heard them coming.

"We've got a
letter to give you, ain't we, Clem?"

Tawl felt a pulse
begin to beat on either side of his forehead. The smell of the abattoir caught
in his nostrils. "Who is the letter from?"

Moth took off his
cap and nudged Clem, who did likewise. "The letter is from the recent and
most tragically deceased Bevlin."

Tawl couldn't look
at either of them. There was a dry lump in his throat. "Why give it to
me?"

"Because it's
addressed to you, my friend," said Moth. "Just before the good man
died, he sent a missive to the Old Man with a second letter inside it. Apparently
he left instructions that-" He turned to his companion. "How did he
put it, Clem?"

"That in the
event of his death it should be forwarded to the knight, Moth."

"Beautifully
done, Clem. No one can remember word for word like you."

Tawl felt sick.
He'd come this far, sworn an oath that forever damned him, and had just found a
measure of acceptance for his new fate. He didn't want to resurrect the past.

There were too
many memories that could drag him down. The only way he could cope was to keep
it all behind him. "I don't want the letter."

Moth looked a
little taken aback. "Well, we've got to deliver it, my friend. Will you do
the honors, Clem?"

Clem searched in
his tunic and pulled out a folded parchment. As dark as it was, Bevlin's seal
could clearly be seen in the wax. It was the color of blood. Clem held it out
for Tawl to take.

Despite
everything, Tawl could not keep his hand from moving forward. His fingers
itched to feel the smooth surface of the parchment. Just as he was about to
take the letter, the moon rose over the chimneys. Full and large, it seemed to
fill the sky, yet there was only one destination for its light: Tawl's arm. The
bandage covering his circles glowed white in the moonlight. Instinctively Tawl
pulled his arm away, the moonlight followed the move. He tilted his arm away
from the moon, but somehow its light still caught the bandage. Under the linen
lay the circles. Under the circles lay a man not worthy to bear them.

He was no longer a
knight of Valdis. There was no quest. He didn't have the right to take the
letter. He served the duke of Bren now, not Bevlin's memory.

Tawl pulled back
his arm. "I can't take the letter. I'm sorry. If you'd found me four days
earlier..." He couldn't finish the thought, let alone the words.

"But we came
all this way," said Moth. "The Old Man won't be pleased, will he,
Clem?"

"He'll be
right mad, Moth."

"Look, me and
Clem are going to walk away. We're going to leave the letter on the ground.
When we're gone, you can take it and no one will ever know."

Tawl smiled at
Moth and shook his head. "It's not as easy as that. I wish that it
were."

"Me and Clem
hate to see you upset, Tawl," said Moth.

"Is there
anything we can do to help-on the quiet, like, not a word to the Old Man?"

"No, nothing,
but I thank you all the same." Tawl held out his arm and clasped both
men's forearms in turn. "Please leave. Do whatever you have to with the
letter."

Moth and Clem
pulled aside for an instant and exchanged a few hurried words. "Clem wants
to know if you need any coinage," said Moth.

"No, thank
you, Clem." Their kindness was almost too much. He didn't deserve it.

A few more hurried
words and then they both turned toward him. "Well," said Moth,
"it looks like me and Clem will be on our way. We've decided that we're
going to leave the letter anyway, haven't we, Clem? Can't go back with the
thing. It wouldn't look good."

Clem nodded rather
solemnly and placed the letter at Tawl's feet.

"Me and Clem
wish you profit on your journey."

"And health
at your hearth," said Clem.

"Nicely put,
Clem," said Moth. The two backed away from Tawl as if he were a king.
Shuffling backward they reached the end of the street, waved once in silent
salute, and then were lost in the shadows of the city.

Tawl wanted to
call them back. But he wouldn't. He wanted to read the letter. But he couldn't.
He stood in the moonlight, a lonely figure without a cloak, and waited until he
was ready. The letter shifted in the breeze, its corners lifting seductively. A
trace of text could be seen for a moment; it was written in Bevlin's clumsy
hand. Tawl knew he had to go: stay any longer and he would succumb to
temptation and tear the letter open. His soul screamed to read it. Duty
demanded he wouldn't: he was the duke's to command now. One oath broken was
enough.

He turned and
walked away.

Nabber watched
from the shadows, hardly daring to breath. Every part of his still small body
was intent upon willing Tawl to pick up the letter, but he didn't. The
knight-for Tawl would never be anything except a knight to Nabber-walked away
from the letter and never looked back. A very real pain constricted Nabber's
heart and a very real tear fell down his cheek. Swift's words echoed in his
ear:
"That's what you get for snooping where you're not wanted."

How could he have
let Tawl go out on his own, though? The knight was weak, injured, and obviously
deranged: he'd poured a full skin of ale on the fire! A man like that needed
watching, closely.

Nabber had spied
on Tawl from the moment he got up from his pallet, eventually following him out
of the palace. The castle guards had given him a bit of trouble; they didn't
believe that he was a guest of the duke. Nabber snorted indignantly. He soon
put them right, even had them apologizing and offering to share their supper. Round
about now Nabber was wishing he'd taken them up on the offer: there was a hole
the size of a decent pork pie in his stomach and it was getting bigger, and not
at all quietly at that. There had been moments when Nabber thought his stomach
had given the game away. It rumbled viciously while the two cronies had been
talking to the knight.

Nabber knew they
were from the Old Man before they even opened their mouths. Their menacing
mismatched forms were a familiar sight on the streets of Rorn. No one messed with
them. Quite a pair, by all accounts, their specialty being beating up reluctant
shopkeepers. Nabber couldn't remember their names, but their faces were hard to
forget.

When he'd first
spotted them, he thought they were going to slice Tawl to ribbons. There had
been one hairraising instant when he felt sure he was going to have to jump in
and save Tawl. Again. Wasn't to be, though. They'd come to talk to him. Seemed
right friendly, they did. Nabber then decided they were going to kidnap the
knight insteadparticularly when the big one reached inside his tunic. But it
wasn't a knife he wielded, it was a letter.