A Man Betrayed (57 page)

Blood still flowed
from a finger that looked bloodless, coming to the surface like a glossy red
jewel. The cup captured its measure and a drawing made it move. Baralis' brow
furrowed in anticipation of the bum. Across his forehead he made the line of
the horizon, and then bent low to inhale the drug that would send his mind
above it. His lungs fought the poison all the way. Immediately he grew lighter.
Too light to be held by a heavy body, too restless to be bound by four walls.
Up and up he rose, making for the highest point, the clank of earthly chains in
his ear.

The heavens had no
power to tempt him tonight. They were a woman whose charms had long faded.

East and south he
traveled across the darkening sky, over the listless land and then above the
skittish sea. They knew he was coming and sent out a beacon, yet he would have
found his way regardless of guidance. Larn glowed like a pearl in the dark.

A chamber awaited,
four men around a stone table. Eyes closed, minds ready for the meet.

"Welcome,
Baralis," came the first voice that was not really a voice at all, more a
sliver of pure thought. "We are glad you are here. What do you want from
us?"

Baralis styled
himself a trace of a body and cast it to the wall like a shadow. There was
tension in the room: Lam had its own agenda, its high priests were afraid.
He
would speak for now, though. It was up to them to say if their paths would
cross in purpose.

"You have an
interest in a knight named Tawl. I would know what it is." Baralis felt a
collective indrawing of breath.

"He came here
for a seering. We showed him the way."

"What way was
that?"

"To the
kingdoms."

Now it was
Baralis' turn to inhale deeply, only he had no body nor breath to breathe. His
shadow wavered. "What did he seek?"

"A boy."

"Why?"

His question was
met with silence. A candle guttered and the flame died away. A stream of liquid
wax shot down its length and ran onto the hand of one of the four. The man
didn't flinch. Baralis grew impatient. He knew they were communicating amongst
themselves, intriguing, calculating, deciding the risks. Something was worrying
them and, if he wasn't mistaken, they were about to ask for his help.

Finally a voice
spoke up. "It might have been an error to give the seering. Since the
knight left us many of our seers have been tormented by dreams; they see our
temple collapsing and the seering stones sundered. We feel the knight may hold
our fate in his hands."

"And where
does the wiseman Bevlin fit in?"

"His life
wish was to raze our temple to the ground."

"Was?"

"He is dead
now."

Baralis kept his
surprise well hidden. There was little point in asking how the wiseman died:
Larn had a way with murder. "So the knight was his disciple?"

"Perhaps.
What is your interest in him?"

"He is now
the duke of Bren's champion. His fate lingers like an aftertaste on my
tongue."

"And does he
still seek the boy?"

For an instant
Baralis' mind alighted upon something remembered in the distant past: a nursery
rhyme that spoke of three bloods. Just as he grasped it, it was gone. The
incident unsettled him; it was like a warning. The knight and the mysterious
boy: they both had some bearing on the future. His future. So what was their
connection to Larn? The very fact that the high priests were worried was
alarming enough. With power and resources such as theirs, it took a strong
threat to cause them anything more than a moment's distress. Baralis had the
feeling that everything was connected: the marriage, the empire, the knight and
Larn, but a common thread eluded him.

"Why do gyou
ask about the boy?"

"We would
like to make sure the knight never finds him. If you can help us with this,
then we will be prepared to help you."

"How?"

"We know your
plans, Baralis. We knew what you were born to do. Even before your mother's
womb took the seed, we were aware of that you would be. Our fate is connected
with yours. As you rise, so do we."

Although he was
hearing this for the first time, the words seemed familiar; they played upon
his eardrums like a well-remembered song. Fate hadn't chosen him to let him
dance alone. Powerful allies were needed to ensure his success. He would like
to question the priests further, but he had the feeling that Larn couldn't see
the complete picture, either. He would only get riddles for answers. No matter.
He could find things out on his own.

"If you wish
I can keep an eye on the knight," he said. "And if he makes a move to
leave the city, I will stop him before he reaches the walls."

"What do you
ask in return?"

"Knowledge of
your seerings. A great war will soon be upon us, and I would like all the
advantages of foretelling on my side."

"Our seers
seldom give facts, Baralis. Only guidance."

"I need no
lessons from you, high priest."

"So be it. We
will feed you whatever information we deem necessary."

Already the games
had started. Men of their kind loved nothing better than to mince and parry
words. "I hope my diet will not be found wanting meat."

"Seeing that
you are such a cynical man, Baralis, we will give you a sample of our fare to
seal the pact."

"Go on."
Baralis felt himself weakening. He had been here too long and traveled too far.
His shadow rippled and thinned away. Then the contractions started. Over hundreds
of leagues his body began to exert its powers, sucking him back with all the
pull of the grave.

"Two days ago
one of our seers spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a
girl with a knife at her side. Is that meat enough for your plate?"

Baralis gave in to
the unbearable pressure of body, the power of the physical world. The pull
created a vacuum and he had no choice but to fill the void. He bade the priests
farewell, yet already he had diminished in their thoughts. They sent him one
final reminder: "Watch the knight for us." He scarcely heard it. A
great rush filled his ears as he was forced from the temple.

The sea salt had
taste and the bird droppings stank of vinegar, and then the acceleration
started and he knew nothing more.

Jack was kicked
awake. Without conscious thought he retaliated; hand thrusting out to catch his
attacker's ankle.

"You
kingdoms' bastard," came a familiar voice, quickly followed by a familiar
sensation as Gleeless the guard kicked him once more for his impudence.

Jack hardly cared
about the impact of the kicking-at some point yesterday pain had lost its power
over him and he now existed in a state of fevered calm-but he did take offense
at the insult of the kick. Gleeless needed to be taught a few jail-side
manners. Now if only he could pick himself off the floor, he'd be the man to do
it. At the moment, though, his left arm seemed to be the only part of him that
was functioning properly, whilst all of Gleeless' limbs appeared to be in
working order-though he did favor his right leg-and odds of four to one were a
little discouraging, to say the least.

Gleeless backed
away and returned a moment later with a cup of ale and a bowl of eels. Jack's
stomach turned at the sight of them. In Baralis' books the heroes were always
given stale bread and water, but since he'd been here they'd fed him nothing
but eels. The Halcus knew how to use food as a weapon. A spinning sensation
rounded up his thoughts like cattle and Jack's head became heavy with the load.
He drifted to a world where sausages held knives and hams aimed crossbows at
cheese.

When he came to
next, the grease on the eels had congealed. The light from the arrow loops had
shifted across the cell floor and was now highlighting a trail of beetles that
were making their way to the bowl. Jack pushed the eels in their direction;
they were welcome to them. The ale was his, though. He found it hard to pick up
the cup, his hands were never quite where they should be, and they were
trembling so much that getting a firm grip was nearly impossible. To make
matters worse, every few seconds two cups would appear, and he was never quite
sure which one to go for. Rolling onto his stomach, he brought his head down
toward the cup; his vision betrayed him again and another appeared by its side.
He had the bright idea of aiming his mouth in the middle of the two cups. It
worked. The ale was warm and there was something unpleasant floating in it, but
he lapped it up like a dog. As he drank he noticed a tapping noise, and it took
him a few seconds to realize that it was the sound of sweat dripping from his
brow into the cup.

The eels were now
alive with beetles. The eels moved more lethargically in death, borne on the
current of a hundred hungry mandibles chomping away at their flesh. The sight
of it sickened Jack. He rose up from his cup and began to concentrate on the
bowl. He was getting better at summoning sorcery. Imagining his stomach was a
skin of water, he squeezed upon the muscles, forcing the fluid to rise. At the
same time he distilled his thoughts, losing all but one: the desire to destroy
the bowl. The kindling was in place, but he still needed a spark to make it
catch. Jack flashed an image of Rovas through his mind, a picture of the
smuggler leaning forward to whisper words of comfort in Tarissa's ear. So close
he left saliva on the lobe. The sorcery rushed through his body to his mouth.
He felt it alight upon his tongue and an instant later the bowl of eels
exploded outward.

Beetles and parts
of beetles rained down upon his body.

Eels and their
gravy were thrown against his skin, and shards of pottery punctured his shaking
flesh. A wave of nausea rose up in him and he was helpless to stop it. Leaning
forward, he lost the contents of his stomach into the rushes. It wasn't the
insects, or eels, or sorcery that made him sick, it was how low he had to stoop
to call the power from within. He was ashamed of using Tarissa as his catalyst.
In Castle Harvell there had been a plain-looking laundress called Marnie. One day
she had invited him to the small dark room where she kept her stocks of lye and
fuller's earth. She placed her firm fleshy hand upon his arm and brought her
thin lips forward to meet his. He hadn't wanted to kiss her, but in his mind he
conjured up an image of Findra the table maid and superimposed it over Marnie's
face. Feeling an instant flare of excitement, he kissed her and fondled her
heavfly muscled breasts. Afterward he felt remorse. Not only had he used Mamie,
but Findra as well. Although he never went near the laundry again, he never
forgot his guilt. Even now, the smell of freshly laundered clothes was enough
to make him redden with shame.

He had used
Tarissa's image as surely .as he'd used Findra's.

Jack felt his
consciousness slipping away. He fought the sensation; he didn't want to lose
any more hours to fevered fancy. He brushed the refuse from his skin, careful
not to look at his arms. Over the past two days he had become adept at not
seeing
his body. The sight was too appalling. Tooth marks bloated by pus had
caught his eye once, and he was determined it wouldn't happen again.

The only thing
that caused him any real discomfort was the arrow wound in his chest. Situated
high up by his right shoulder, Jack could feel it pulling at the surrounding
flesh.

The arrowhead had
been removed-by whom he'd never know, certainly not Gleeless-but apart from
that nothing had been done. No hot iron, no stitches or ointments had been
used, and his tunic was attached firmly to the wound. Jack had come to the
conclusion that if he were to pull his tunic away from the newly forming scab,
he would probably bleed to death.

Jack began to lose
himself in the thickness of his thoughts. Marnie the laundress appeared before
him, demanding that he take off his tunic so that she could wash it. Master
Frallit was behind her, scolding him for getting pus in the dough, and Grift
filled Bodger's glass with beetle-colored ale, whilst telling him why washer
women were better in bed.

"You lazy,
good for nothing villain." And then:

"Come on, you
foul-smelling vermin, get up on your feet and show some respect."

It took the impact
of several kicks to convince Jack that the voice wasn't part of his dream, as
the words seemed to fit right in with the rest of the content.

He opened his eyes
just in time to see Gleeless swinging a bucket, the contents of which ended up
in his face. "Thought that would wake you," said Gleeless, nodding
like a surgeon in mid-diagnosis. "Got a little friend here for you."
He made a beckoning gesture with his hand and in walked a second guard, pushing
a man before him. "He's from your homeland, so you two should get on just
fine." Gleeless turned to the man. "What's your name again,
mate?"

"Bringe,"
said the man.

The man was in a
bad way. His nose was broken, both eyes were ringed with black bruises, and his
wrists bore the unmistakable mark of the rope. He had been tied to a barrel and
then beaten.

"Now, Bringe
here is going to be spending the night with you," said Gleeless, making
his way to the cell door with the second guard. "Don't forget to ask him
his opinion on Halcus torture, 'cos this time tomorrow the chief persecutor
will be coming for you, and it might be helpful to know in advance just how
mean he can get if he's crossed." Gleeless smiled rather amiably and then
turned and closed the door.

Tavalisk ran a
pudgy hand over the pale and gelatinous substance, picked a likely spot for
testing, and then stabbed his finger into the flesh. Perfect. The tripe was as
soft and welcoming as a young boy's thighs. The substance quivered as if it
were alive, its oyster-colored flesh giving off the subtle aroma of bile.
Countless tiny glands roughened the surface, providing the only variation to
the bland and bloodless gut. Tripe: the stomach lining of the pig. Not a great
delicacy in anyone's opinion, but delicious all the same. Nothing could match
it for texture and taste, nothing was quite as teasing on the tongue. Most men
would make the mistake of boiling it with salt and onions, but Tavalisk knew
differently. It required a delicate poaching in pork broth and vinegar; only
then would it reveal its true complexity of flavor. Done right, and one could
almost taste every separate meal that had ever been eaten by the pig.