A Man Betrayed (61 page)

"The most
sensible in Rom."

"Is that
where you met the knight-Rorn?"

Nabber rubbed his
chin. "Just about how advantageous would it be for me to tell you
that?" He couldn't see that disclosing the information would do Tawl any
harm. So why not make a little loot? It was nobody's secret.

"Answer all
my questions today and I will give you ten golds."

"Done! If you
have the money about your person." Lord Baralis reached inside his robe
and brought out a velvet purse. Without pausing to measure coinage, he offered
it out for Nabber to take. "This should be sufficient."

Nabber took the
purse. His first instinct was to count the loot, but he remembered the way
Swift handled himself in similar situations, and so he quietly slipped the
purse into his tunic. Of course the minute Swift was alone he'd tally the money
with the skill of a professional lender. And if he found it wanting, he would
quickly dispatch a man to break the offender's fingers. Somehow Nabber doubted
if he'd be doing the same with Lord Baralis.

"So, how long
have you known the knight?"

"Long enough
to call him a friend." Nabber thought Lord Baralis would take him to task
on the vagueness of his answer, but he let it pass.

"Has he been
looking for the boy since you met him?"

"Way before
then." Only after he spoke did Nabber begin to wonder how Lord Baralis
knew about Tawl's quest. "Did you ever go with him to meet the wiseman,
Bevlin?" After each question Lord Baralis moved a few steps closer. He was
now only an arm's length away from Nabber. His breath smelled sharp and sweet.

The purse in
Nabber's tunic began to feel heavy, like a burden. "I met Bevlin once.
Nice man he was, cured me of the northern shivers."

"Where is his
house?"

"Less than
three weeks ride east of here." .

"Do you know
if he had any relatives ogr acquaintances who would currently be in possession
of his belongings?" Lord Baralis' eyes narrowed. "I know he's dead,
of course."

The purse now
became hot as well as heavy. "Can't help you there, my friend."

"Do you think
there's a chance his possessions might still be in his house?"

Nabber had buried
Bevlin. He'd dug a shallow grave and then dragged the wiseman's body out of the
cottage to the plot that lay under the sill. He scrubbed the blood from the
floor, dampened the fire, threw out all the goods that were perishable, let the
hens free from the coop and the pig free from the sty, sealed all the shutters,
and locked and bolted the door. "Yes," he said. "There's a
chance Bevlin's things are still where he left them." Nabber thought for a
moment and then added, "Why do you want to know?"

"He and I were
involved in the same type of scholarly research. We shared a passion for
crawling insects. Bevlin had an unrivaled collection of books on the subject,
and I worry that if they were to fall into the wrong hands they might be
treated badly." Lord Baralis made a small, selfdeprecating gesture.
"Only experts like myself would fully appreciate their value." He
looked Nabber straight in the eye. "Now, can you remember exactly how to
get to his house?"
Insects?
He looked the sort. "Yes."

"Draw me a
map," Lord Baralis' voice was as thick and tempting as honey, "and I
will make it worth your while. Accompany my servant on the journey and I will
make you a rich man."

Tempting though
the offer was, Nabber had no intention of agreeing to it. Not only did he feel
honor-bound to wait for Tawl's return, but more importantly, a long journey
meant the one thing he hated most in the world: horses. No one was going to get
him on one of those ugly, badtempered, flea-ridden things unless it was a
matter of life and death. There was a problem with accepting the first offer,
though: he couldn't write, let alone draw a map. "I could tell you exactly
how to get there, but I'll do no drawing-my hand, you know, injured it in a
boating accident."

"Hmm."
Lord Baralis spread the sound over two skeptical syllables. "Very well.
Tell me now and I will have your payment delivered to you within the
hour."

Nabber didn't feel
it would be a wise move to question the man's integrity. The loot would come.
He had an instinct about such things. He took a deep breath. "Well, you
ride east as far as. . ."

Tarissa was
laughing at him. Her jaw was wide, her curls were bouncing, and her head rocked
back and forth. So long and hard she laughed that the strings of her bodice
gave way and her breasts spilled out over the fabric. A rough hand reached out
and tucked them back in, the fingers lingering long over the milky white flesh.

Rovas!
he
screamed.
Rovas!

"Ssh, lad.
Ssh. Everything's all right now."

Jack found himself
looking up into the smooth, round face of Mrs. Wadwell.

"It was a bad
dream, that's all. No need to worry."

Her voice had a
calming effect upon him, and the line between sleeping and waking drew itself
anew. His muscles relaxed and he slumped back down against the sheet. It was
wet with sweat.

Mrs. Wadwell stood
up and busied herself around the room, opening shutters, stoking the fire, and
pouring some broth into a bowl. "Sit up, lad," she said, "and
drink this."

She handed him the
bowl and didn't blink until the spoon was at his lips. "That's a good
lad."

The last thing
Jack thought he wanted was broth, but as soon as the spicy liquid met his
tongue, he was overcome with a ravenous hunger. He had hardly eaten in a week,
and it was as if his body was determined to secure some nourishment despite his
brain's reluctance. Mrs. Wadwell nodded approvingly and fetched him some more
food: another bowl of broth, a full crusty loaf, a wedge of cheese that would
have stopped open a door, and a cold roast chicken that looked like it had been
hit by one.

"I pressed it
whilst it roasted," said Mrs. Wadwell, seeing Jack eyeing the flat chicken
suspiciously. "If you squash a bird in the oven with decent size weights,
it forces the juices into the meat. Turns right tender, it does."

"Aye, lad, no
one roasts a bird like my wife." Dilburt came toward the bed, the smile on
his face bright with undisguised pride. He patted Mrs. Wadwell affectionately
on her bottom. "You won't find a finer woman anywhere."

"You soft old
coot," she replied, winking at Jack. "Go and cut me some wood. If the
fire bums any lower, I won't be able to warm the chickens let alone roast
them."

Dilburt obediently
left the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell straightened Jack's bed, made sure all the food
was within reach, and then followed her husband outside, muttering something
about not chopping the green ones.

Jack wasted no
time; he tore into the food the moment the door banged shut. It was the most
delicious meal he had eaten in his entire life. The bread was chewy and tasted
of nuts, the cheese was cream-heavy and bright with herbs, and the flat chicken
was so tender it fell off the bone. With each bite the memory of eels and their
gravy receded into the distance.

The memory of last
night was not so easy to eat away. The more full his belly became, the more
freedom his thoughts seemed to have to soar where they pleased. Everything came
back to him in terrifying detail: the fire, the sparks, the creaking of
timbers, and the low rumble of moving earth. The screams were the worst thing.
The terrified screams of people burning, or choking, or just plain afraid.
Suddenly the room filled with the sound of their screams. It was a visible
force, whipping the air round like a whirlwind. The food turned to ashes in his
mouth and he brought his hands up to his ears, desperate to stop the sound.

He had done this!
People were dead because of him. The fault was his and his alone. Tarissa and
Rovas had played him for a fool, lying about Melli's death, lying about the
tunnel, lying about how much they cared. Yet rather than take his anger out on
them, he had turned it toward innocent people instead.

The screams died
away, as if content for a while that he had acknowledged his guilt.

He needed to make
sure something like this never happened again. The power within him was too
dangerous to be used in anger. It caused him to lash out uncontrollably, making
itself his master. He had been right in the Halcus cell to try and force the
sorcery to do his bidding, but he had come nowhere near success. He doubted if
he could on his own. Who was there to help him, though? Even a powerful man
like Baralis was forced to keep his powers hidden. The world condemned sorcery.
People who used it were branded as demons and burned at the stake. And after
last night he knew why.

Was that all that
sorcery was good for? he wondered. Destruction?

Jack swung his
feet onto the floor and tested the strength of his legs. Hardly good enough for
standing, but he needed to relieve himself badly and he wasn't about to take a
pot to his bed like an invalid. He'd rather fall on his face trying to make it
outside. Taking a deep breath, he transferred his weight to his legs, groaning
like an old man as he hauled himself up. Nausea fluttered around his belly and
he was forced to swallow hard to keep it down. A grim smile stretched his lips.
He didn't fancy seeing the pressed chicken again; it hadn't looked too
appetizing the first time around, no matter how good it had tasted.

Once his legs felt
sure enough to take his weight, he risked stepping forward. Muscles in his
chest, his abdomen, his behind, and his legs protested violently, and then
finding their cries ignored, they set to quivering like eels in jelly. Finding
the quivering ignored, they actually shaped up and did his bidding. Jack knew
that his muscles were unhappy, but plodded on regardless.

Opening the door,
he discovered a bright beautiful day scented with the full promise of spring.
Flowers bloomed on either side of the door and flies, lazy after a morning's
work, sunned themselves on the broad green leaves. At the far end of the garden
Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were deep in conversation with a small dark man. As soon
as Dilburt saw Jack emerge from the cottage, he practically pushed the man
away, diverting his attention by leading him down the muddy lane. Mrs. Wadwell
came rushing forward, a plump finger on an even plumper lip. "Inside, lad,
inside," she hissed.

Jack obeyed her
immediately. Not content with closing the door, she took the precaution of
bolting it. "In bed now, this instant. I'll bring you a pot if need made
you stray."

Too embarrassed to
say anything, Jack merely nodded. "Now, lad, if anyone should happen to
come here, you're Dilburt's sick nephew from Todlowly." Mrs. Wadwell
thought for a second. "And the ague has taken your voice."

So she knew he was
from the kingdoms. In that case, he might as well speak freely. "Who was
that man in the garden?" he asked.

"A friend of
Dilburt's from the garrison." Mrs. Wadwell handed him the largest
chamberpot he'd ever seen in his life. The sides were painted with waterfalls.
"My sister makes them herself," she said.

He took it from
her and placed it on the floor. Relieving himself would have to wait. "Do
they know anything more about how the fire started?"

Mrs. Wadwell
wasted no words. "A prisoner did it. A man from the kingdoms with chestnut
hair and an arrow wound in his chest."

"I'll go
now," said Jack.

A heavy hand
clamped down on his shoulder. "You're in no fit state to go anywhere, lad.
At least stay another night until you're strong enough to leave." Courage
gleamed softly in the darkness of her eyes, and the lines of her jaw suggested
a formidable depth of determination.

Jack was
overwhelmed by her offer. Here he was a stranger, an enemy and a murderer, yet
she was prepared to put herself at risk by harboring him. He couldn't let her.

"No, I must
go," he said. "I owe you and Dilburt too much as it is." He took
her hand and kissed it gently. "Though I thank you from my heart for your
kindness."

Mrs. Wadwell
snorted dismissively. "Dilburt's never wrong about anyone. If he says
you're all right, then it's good enough for me." She smiled, a little
sadly, and ruffled his hair. "Well, if you're set on going, then you might
as well know the worst. The whole county is teeming with soldiers who are
looking for you. Every man, woman, and child is on the alert and your
description has been circulated far and wide. In a day's time you won't be able
to show your face within a fifty-league radius of the garrison. A week from now
there'll be nowhere you can hide."

"What do they
know about me?"

"Apparently,
the prisoner who you shared a cell with told them that you were a plant, sent
here by King Kylock on a special mission to infiltrate and destroy the
garrison." Mrs.

Wadwell gave him a
hard look. "He also said you were a mighty sorcerer who had the elements
at your command."

"Do they
believe him?"

"You know
folks, never want to believe anything that smacks of sorcery, so they've come
up with all sorts of theories to explain the fire and the explosions. Still,
people talk, and what can't be said freely in public is whispered soft and long
in private."

Jack opened his
mouth to speak.

"Nay,
lad," she said quickly, "I don't want to know the truth. I look at
you and I see a young man who's ill and confused, nothing more." She
smiled brightly. "Let's leave it at that, eh?"

A soft tapping at
the door stopped Jack from giving his thanks. There was a tense moment whilst
Mrs. Wadwell drew back the bolt, but Dilburt stood there alone.

"Did he see
the lad?" she asked.

"He did, but
I told him what you said and he seemed happy enough." They exchanged a
brief, telling glance, and then Dilburt said, "I'm sorry lad, but I think
it's better that you go. If it was me alone, you could stay here until they
knocked down the door. But, the wife..." Slowly, he shook his head.
"I'd be a broken man if anything should happen to her."