A Man Betrayed (5 page)

Probably for
pouring hot oil and the like, thought Nabber. Or to conceal a well-placed
archer. He whistled in appreciation. They had no such fancy stuff in Rom.

The boy joined the
throng of people lining up to enter the city. He took off his cloak, reversed
it so that the scarlet lining was on the inside once more, and put it back on.
He had need of some coinage, and at such times it was best not to be too
conspicuous.

He did a quick
scan of the people waiting to walk through the gate. Not much prospecting here,
that was sure. A distinctly mottled and poor-looking lot; farmers and beggars
and worse. Not a plump and well-fed merchant among them. Just his luck, he'd
picked the wrong gate.

"Here
you," he cried to the tall, lanky guard who was on his side of the gate.
"Yes, you, string-o-beans."

"What d'you
think you're doing addressing the duke's guard in that manner?"

"Sorry, my
friend. I meant no offense. Where I come from, calling a man string-o-beans is
considered a compliment." Nabber beamed brightly at the guard and waited
for the inevitable question.

"Where d'you
come from then?"

"Rom. The
finest city in the east. A place where men who are as unusually tall and lanky
as yourself are in great demand with the women."

The guard's face
registered interest and disbelief in equal measure. He sighed heavily.
"What d'you want?"

"Information,
my good friend."

"Not a spy,
are you?"

"Of course I
am. Been sent by the archbishop of Rorn himself."

"All right,
all right. None of that lip, or I won't let you pass."

Nabber smiled his
winning smile. "Where do all the merchants enter the city?"

"What's that
to you?"

"I lost my
gaffer, that's what." Nabber was never caught short of a quick story.
"Fur merchant, he is. I wondered where the best place to look for him
is."

"The
northeast gate is where all the merchants pass. Two courtyards south is the
traders' market. You might find him there."

"I'm in your
debt, my friend," said Nabber. "Though I wonder if I might impose
upon your extensive knowledge of the city for a moment longer."

The guard fell for
the flattery. "Go on."

"Well,
situated as you are, in a most important post, you must see a lot of the people
who enter the city?"

"That I
do."

"Well,
there's an acquaintance of mine, whom I have good reason to believe may have
come this way. I wonder if you might have seen him."

The guard's face
hardened. "I'm not supposed to give out information like that to
foreigners. Who passes these gates is Bren's business, not yours."

"Suppose I
was to tell you that this man has robbed a great deal of money from my gaffer?
We both know that there ain't anyone more wealthy or generous than a fur
merchant." Nabber resisted the urge to speak further and allowed the guard
to come to his own conclusions. Which he did. "Reward, is there?"

"Ssh, my
friend. Speak that word any louder and half the city will be after it."

"How big is
this reward?"

"I don't like
to mention exact figures, if you know what I mean." Nabber waited until
the guard nodded. "But suffice to say, there'd be enough to set you up
real nice for your retirement. Even go to Rom, you could. A man as handsome as
yourself is wasted in this city."

"How do I
know you're speaking the truth?"

"Do I look
clever enough to fool you?"

The only answer
the guard could possibly give was "No."

"Right,"
said Nabber. "This man I'm looking for is taller than you, but not as
lanky. Broad, he is, and well muscled. Blond hair, blue eyes, handsome, if you
like that kind of thing. Wearing a cloak like myself, he would be."

"What would
he be doing wearing a cloak like yours?" The guard was suspicious.

"He stole it
from my gaffer, of course. My gaffer always likes to dress me like himself,
says it makes for better business recognition." Nabber sent a silent
prayer of thanks to the fictional fur merchant who was turning out to be so
useful.

The guard took a
step back, scratched his chin, looked at Nabber, looked at the ground, looked
toward the east. Finally he spoke. "There
was
a man fitting your
description. Entered the city on horseback about five days ago. Tall and blond,
he was. Right mean-looking, too." He thought a moment longer. "And
come to think of it, he did have a cloak like yours. I remember the bright red
lining."

It took all of
Nabber's considerable powers of selfcontrol to stop himself from heaving a
massive sigh of relief. The memory of Swift's voice echoed in his ear:
"Nonchalance,
boy, never show interest. Let them think you're a fool, rather than know you're
a rogue. "

Nabber shrugged.
"Could be our man. Do you happen to know which part of the city he headed
for?"

The guard looked a
little disappointed at Nabber's casualness. "There's no way of knowing
that, boy. In a city the size of Bren, a man might go unseen for a
lifetime."

"Five days
ago, you say? Is there anywhere in the city where a man with a strong arm and a
skill for using weapons might head?"

"In my
experience, men like that blond no-hope end up in one of two places: the
brothel or the fight pit."

"Where might
I find either of those establishments?"

"On any
street corner in the west of the city."

Nabber was itching
to be on his way. "So, my friend, give me your name so I can let my gaffer
know who it was who gave me the tip-off."

"Longtoad."

"My, my. I
see you have a name as handsome as your figure. Well, Longtoad, I'll be sure to
pass on the good word." Nabber sketched a hasty bow and was about to
retreat when the guard laid a hand upon his shoulder, gripping his flesh
through the cloak.

"Not so fast,
you little devil. I want to know the name of your gaffer the fur merchant-and
your own name, for that matter."

"Steady on
the fabric, Longtoad. This cloak cost a fortune." The guard relaxed his
hold. "Now then, my gaffer's name is Master Beaverpelt, and me, I'm known
as Wooly-hair. Just ask any fur trader; the name Beaverpelt is a byword for
quality throughout the Known Lands."

The guard released
his grip on the boy. "Beaverpelt. Ain't never heard a name like that
before. You mark my words, boy, if I find you've been oiling my rag, I'll hunt
you down, then string you up. Now move along sharpish."

Nabber saluted the
guard and then slipped into the crowd. He crossed the threshold of the east
gate and entered the city of Bren. The first thing he did was sniff the air.

Nothing. Where was
the smell? Rorn reeked of filth and the sea-where was Bren's smell? He took
another deep breath, drawing the air into his nostrils like a connoisseur.
There was no smell. How could Bren call itself a city and yet have no odor of
its own? Nabber had been to Toolay, Ness, and Rainhill: they all had their own
unique smells. He was disappointed. The stench of a city was its signature; a
way to tell the nature of the place and its people. To Nabber's mind, there was
something decidedly furtive about a city that had no smell.

A man jostled
against him, muttering curses and wamings. He was tall and dark, his tunic
stretching tautly across a finely muscled chest. Nabber couldn't help himself.
With one fast and fluid motion, he reached inside the man's tunic. His hands
closed around a bundle. He snatched his arm back and then turned into the
crowd. He didn't look back. Swift had warned him many times about the dangers
of looking back. He didn't speed his pace, either, once again heeding Swift's
advice:
"Be a professional at all times, boy. The moment you break into
a run is the moment you admit your guilt. "

Nabber went with
the crowd as far as it suited him and then slipped into a timely alleyway. Bren
might have no smell, but at least it boasted some decently dark and fiendish
passages. Nabber began to feel more at his ease as he walked through the gaps
between buildings: this was familiar territory.

He trod paths that
had been trodden many times before by people more desperate than himself, and
fell under shadows that had cloaked those with more need for concealment than a
simple pocket from Rorn. Nabber was right at home. He came across other people
lurking in the alleyways and either tipped them a nod if they looked friendly,
or averted his eyes if they looked dangerous.

Finally he came
upon a suitably isolated recess. Crouching down, he reached in his sack and
pulled out the bundle. This was the best part, right before the unraveling,
when anticipation met need. With practiced hands he undressed the package. The
cold glint of silver met his eye. He was disappointed; better the warm glow of
gold. Still, coinage was coinage. Pity about the mark, though, for he had the
look of one who held gold somewhere on his person. Probably strapped to his
thigh, close to his vitals. Few pockets were ever desperate enough to venture
there.

Nabber sighed with
the regret and rummaged through the contents of the sack. A lot could be
learned about a man from the bundle he carried. This one would have eaten a
cold-and Nabber discovered rather tasteless-game pie for dinner. However, the
man was used to good things, for the bundle was lined with silk. He'd also been
hoping to get lucky, for there was a sheep's bladder beneath the pie, oiled and
ready to use. The man either had an aversion for fatherhood or a fear of the
ghones.

Nabber pulled
absently on the bladder, deciding its worth. There was no resale value, but he
was loath to throw anything away, so he tucked it into his pack. Perhaps he
could give it to Tawl when he found him. A handsome man like his friend always
had women a'queing. Unfortunately the women who were the most willing were
usually the most catching. A man had need of a sheath with girls like that.

Nabber was just
about to discard the bundle when something blue and shiny caught his eye. Closer
inspection revealed a tiny miniature tucked away in the corner. He freed it
from its hiding place and brought it into the light. He whistled in
appreciation. The girl in the painting was quite a beauty: golden hair, blue
eyes, lips as soft as freshly hung tripe. The dark man with the muscles had a
fine taste in ladies, if not food. Flipping the miniature over revealed writing
on the other side. Nabber was no scholar, so the text remained unread, but he
could recognize crosses that marked kisses as quick as the next man. With a
shrug, he pocketed the portrait and turned his eyes to the pie.

Nabber finished it
off and wondered what his next move should be. He had need of more money, as
his contingency had been sadly depleted due to his stay in Rainhill. Dicing had
ever been his downfall, that together with his tendency to order extravagant
meals at even more extravagant inns, had rendered him penniless. He'd even had
to sell his pony. Though, granted that wasn't a great sacrifice. Never had
there been a more mutually agreeable parting than the one between Nabber and
his horse.

So, he needed
coinage. And a few well-worn silvers just weren't enough for a boy with
expensive tastes like himself. He also needed to find the knight.

Tawl was somewhere
in the city, he was almost certain of it. The guard at the gate had merely
confirmed his suspicions. Nabber had followed the knight's trail for over three
weeks now, visiting villages that Tawl had passed through, following paths that
Tawl had ridden on. Nabber had talked to countless strangers about the knight,
and if they'd seen him pass they remembered a man with golden hair and
dangerously blank eyes.

Tawl needed him.
It wasn't in the boy's nature to ask too many questions, so he didn't dwell on
the reason why. He just knew that the knight was in trouble and required
rescuing. Nabber was the one who would step in and do the job. He knew that
Tawl had been on some heroic quest, the sort that knights were always on, and
he feared that his friend might have given up his duty. Nabber considered it
his responsibility to put the knight back on track. It was different for him:
once a lowlife, always a lowlife. He had no desire to be anything other than a
pocket, unless of course it was to be a rich pocket. But Tawl, well, he was
noble and honorable, and it just wasn't right that he should go astray. Who
could tell? By helping his friend, he might be helping himself. Quests were
notorious money spinners.

He looked up past
the darkened buildings to the sky above. It was already past midday; time to
get a move on. In his experience, it was at about this time that merchants,
with a full morning of trading behind them and before they'd had a chance to
spend their profits in the taverns, had the fullest pockets. Nabber struck a path
toward the northeast gate, where, if memory served him, the traders' market was
held. Opportunity beckoned and he was never one to ignore the call.

"I'm just
going out for a minute. I need to stretch my legs." Jack knew Melli would
protest.

"But the blizzard's
still raging. You'll catch your death," she said. "Can't you wait and
see if it clears up a little first?" She was worried about him, he could
tell from the set of her mouth: soft lips drawn to a hard line. Well, she would
just have to worry; he needed some air. Four days holed up in a chicken coop
had taken their toll. He had to be outside, see the expanse of the land rather
than the enclosure of the walls. He needed to be by himself.

He didn't want to
hurt Melli by telling her that, so he said, "Nature calls."

A flush came to
her cheeks, but even her embarrassment at the mention of such an indelicate
subject was not enough to forestall a warning. "Don't venture far."

Jack couldn't help
but smile-a man could love a woman like that. "Don't worry," he said,
"I won't be gone long." Their eyes met and, as if something in her
gaze compelled him, he stretched out his hand. It hung in the air between them
until her hand stretched out to meet it. Her fingers were cool and her touch
light, but it was enough for Jack, who knew little of such things. He resisted
the urge to squeeze and enfold her hand: he didn't want to risk rejection. So
he withdrew quickly and, he knew, awkwardly from her touch.