A Man Betrayed (8 page)

"Aye. I saw
that hooded giant Crope lift him right up and lay him on the ground. It was
just as well that the captain decided to make camp then and there, for Lord
Baralis was one man who wasn't fit for a full day's ride."

The attention of
both men was diverted by the sound of swift horses approaching from behind.

"It's the two
rear watches, Grift. Looks like they're bringing someone in."

"Damn! I hope
it's not trouble with the Halcus."

"No, Grift.
The third man's no Halcus." Bodger twisted in his saddle to get a better
look at the approaching riders. "He's royal guard."

"Are you
sure, Bodger?"

"Blue and
gold under his cloak, Grift."

"I tell you,
Bodger, if a lone member of the guard has been sent to catch up with us, it
means trouble."

"What sort of
trouble, Grift?"

"The worst
sort, Bodger."

The two men fell
into silence as the three riders passed them. The face of the newcomer was grim
and unreadable in the thin light of morning. Grift saw a black cloaked man
break off from the column and make his way to the fore, where the riders were
headed. "I see Lord Baralis is anxious to be let in on the news,
Bodger," he murmured.

The column, abuzz
with the arrival of the messenger, slowed to a halt. Grift looked on as the
riders approached the front, where Maybor and his captains rode. The riders
came to a halt. The messenger saluted. Words were spoken. Lord Baralis
approached, and he and Lord Maybor were drawn aside by the messenger. Grift had
a clear view of all three men, but could not hear what words were exchanged.
Both lords looked tense and drawn. After hearing the man speak, Maybor nodded.
The messenger drew closer to the column. In a loud and ringing voice, he
proclaimed:

"The king is
dead. Long live the king. Long live Kylock."

Jack was handed a
chicken leg. "Eat," commanded the red-haired man, who he now knew to
be called Rovas.

Jack had just
awakened to find himself in a small threeroomed cottage. A fire burned brightly
in the hearth and there were pots on the boil. From the light stealing in
through the cracks in the shutters, Jack could tell it was midmorning. The
collar of his tunic was rubbing against the cut on his neck, and his head was
splitting with pain.

He looked at the
leg of chicken. It seemed a strange breakfast, but he knew little of the ways
of the Halcus. Most people in the kingdoms thought the . Halcus were foul
mouthed barbarians. He took a bite of the chicken: it was tender and sharply
spiced.

"Good,
eh?" prompted Rovas, who was salting his own portion with an admirable
lack of restraint. Salt was obviously not as expensive here as it was in the
kingdoms. The red-haired man noticed Jack's gaze. "Not much salt in the
kingdoms these days, eh?" he said. "What with those damned knights of
Valdis controlling the supply, and then the war. . ." He shook his head.
"There's not enough salt around to keep a powderer in business."

Jack, noting a
certain smugness to the man's words, said, "You appear to be faring
well."

"Isn't that
always the way, though? A war means different things to different people. Take
me: never had so much salt on my table since the war began. It's one of the
perks. Here." Rovas pushed the salt bowl toward Jack. "By rights you
should take some, seeing's this comes from a shipment that was bound for the
kingdoms."

"So you're a
thief?"

The man laughed: a
robust and glorious sound. "Yes, you could say that. You could also say
I'm a brigand, a bandit, a smuggler, a black-marketeer. Take your pick. I
prefer to be called a beneficiary, though."

"Beneficiary?"

"Of the
war." Rovas smiled, showing large, white teeth. "This war is one big
wheat field ripe for the harvest. It would be a shame to let all the grain go
rotten on the stalk, so I farm off the excess."

Jack knew self-serving
rhetoric when he heard it. "Stealing other people's grain is the work of a
weasel, not a farmer."

Rovas laughed
again. "A weasel, eh? Just one more name to add to my list."

The red-haired man
settled back to enjoy his breakfast. Despite his good humor, Jack could detect
a certain nervousness in his bearing. His eyes kept flicking to the door as if
he were expecting somebody. And, indeed, a few minutes later the door opened. A
woman walked in. She was mature in years, but tall and finely featured.
Disappointment flashed across Rovas' face.

"Have you
seen any sign of her?" he asked the woman. "No." They exchanged
a tense look. The woman's face held accusation. Her hand twisted the fabric .of
her dress.

"I shouldn't
have left her there," Rovas said.

"Doing things
you should not is quite a habit with you," retorted the woman.

Jack tried to
grasp what was familiar in the woman's voice. She didn't sound like Rovas, she
sounded more like ... Melli! That was it. She had the same kind of voice as the
women at court. An accent like his own, but with the clipped and modulated
tones of a noblewoman. He wondered how a woman of the kingdoms had come to live
in the lap of the enemy.

"I begged her
to ride at my back." said Rovas, "but she insisted I go alone."

"It was a
close call?"

"Not so close
that my horse couldn't have borne two." The woman's knuckles were white as
she grasped her skirts. "How many were there?"

"A score
turned up at the coop. Six came after me and the boy." Rovas had
apparently lost his appetite; he dropped the half-eaten chicken leg on the
platter. "The last I saw of her, she was hiding in the gorse. It was
freezing out there, Magra. If the soldiers didn't find her, the frost certainly
did." He stood up and made his way to the fire.

"Do you think
she will do anything foolish?" The woman looked quickly toward Jack.

Rovas' eyes
followed her gaze. "I hope not. Someone else can do the job now."

Jack saw the look
the two exchanged: it was loaded with silent messages. A conspirator's glance.
He was beginning to feel wary. He wanted to be back with Melli again, to be on
his way.

The woman called
Magra poured herself a cup of steaming holk. She warmed her hands on its
curves. Turning toward Jack, she said, "So this is the murderer?"

She looked at him
closely, even to the point of drawing a candle nearer. Jack felt uncomfortable
under her scrutiny, but made a point of meeting her gaze. After a moment she
spoke up. "You have a look about you, boy, that is familiar to me."

Jack dreaded the
coming question. In his experience remarks like that always led to inquiries
about a person's family. He had no intention of sharing the shame of his
parentage with the aloof and self-possessed woman standing next to him. He was
saved the task of evasion by Rovas. "Come, Magra," he said. "Sit
down. You won't make your daughter come any faster by bothering the boy."

The woman gave him
one final look. Despite the coldness of her eyes, Jack found himself feeling
sorry for her. She was worried about her daughter, and he was merely providing
a distraction. Sighing heavily, the woman lost a measure of her rigid poise;
instantly appearing older and smaller. Drawing close to the fire, she sat upon
a three-legged stool. Rovas crossed over to her and laid his huge hand upon her
shoulder. Magra drew away from the touch, and Rovas was left standing awkwardly
with his arm held out. He turned and rested his weight against the fireplace.
As he did so, the woman's hand flitted up for an instant in a tiny gesture of
reconciliation that went unseen. The two stayed that way for some time, the
candle burning down a notch, the fire blazing on.

The door latch
broke the spell. It rattled, then lifted, and a girl stepped into the room. No,
once in the light, she was more than a girl. She was a woman. Jack looked on as
Rovas and Magra rushed over to her. Rovas reached her first, his arms reaching
out to envelop her in a bear hug. She was so slight, easily mistakable for a
young girl, but Jack saw that she was older than he, probably by three or four
years. She turned to her mother. There was a formality between the two women
that was absent between her and Rovas. Still, there was a moistness to the
mother's eyes. "I have been too long at the fire," she said when her
daughter noticed.

"So,"
said Rovas, beaming brightly. "What kept you?" All three broke into
an uneasy laugh. To Jack, it was as if he were not in the room. He felt as if
he was intruding; these were not his friends, these were not his joys to share.
If anything, the arrival of the girl had made him angry.
They
were all
right. The girl had made it back safely, their lives were unchanged. What about
Melli?

"So, you
see," the girl was saying, "I had to wait it out overnight, or the
guard set to watch the chicken coop might have spotted me."

The girl had been
within sight of the chicken coop! Things were beginning to fall into place:
Rovas had brought him here on her horse, so she had been forced to hide from
the soldiers, and then make it back on foot. Questions jumped to Jack's lips.
Why had they taken him? Why had they acted against their own countrymen? And
what did they want with him? More important than all that was the fact that the
girl who just walked in had spent the night near the chicken coop.

"What
happened to the girl in the coop?" he demanded, surprised at the venom in
his voice.

All three turned
to look at him. Jack caught the quick exchange of glances between Rovas and the
girl-a warning given and received.

"She is
dead," said the girl. "The captain ordered her to be clubbed to death,
as befits an accomplice to murder."

Melliandra. His
daughter would have been queen this day. What a fool she had been to run away.
What a fool
he
had been to let her get away. She was a jewel, cut for
royalty, polished for power, a fitting adornment for a king. He had not seen
her in so long; how he missed her quick wit and sparkling eyes.

Feeling old and
saddened, Maybor drew his cloak close. The snow had turned to sleet and was
driving into his face. He was waiting for the tents to be erected. The tidings
that the messenger brought were of such import that it was decided to set up
camp then and there, and travel no more this day. This arrangement suited
Maybor nicely; not only did he want to question the messenger further about the
circumstances leading to the king's death, but also, since the fall from his
horse and his subsequent painful landing in a thorn bush, riding had become
rather painful. He was quite sure the physician hadn't pulled out all the
thorns from his backside. It would be just like their kind. If they couldn't
kill you outright with their cures, they always had other ways to make you
suffer.

As for his horse
dropping dead under him, well, just wait till he returned to Harvell. The horse
dealer who'd sold him the stallion would find himself in line for a flogging if
he didn't return the two hundred golds. Maybor grunted, sending whitened breath
into the air. He would see to it that the dealer was flogged even after the
money was returned; someone had to pay for his humiliation.

Maybor glanced
toward Baralis. The black-cloaked lord was hovering like a vulture. It was
obvious that he wanted to be the first to question the messenger. He probably
supposed that as king's chancellor he had that right, but
he,
Maybor,
was head of this party and he would decide the rules.

The steward came
forward and informed him his tent was ready. Maybor instructed the man to fetch
the messenger as soon as he was refreshed and out of his riding clothes.

"But,
sir," said the steward, "Lord Baralis has requested his presence
first."

Maybor pulled a
gold coin from his doublet and pressed it into the soft flesh of the man's
palm. "Here. See to it that the messenger comes to me first." The
steward nodded and dashed off. Loyalty was one means of ensuring one's orders
were carried out. Gold was another.

He stepped into
his tent and set about stripping off his outer clothes. Just as he was
struggling with the awkward back fastenings of his tunic, Baralis entered.

"Should I
call a servant to help you?" he said, moving forward, his lips parting to
show a rare glimpse of tooth. "I can see you're having trouble with those
laces. I must say, I find it quite admirable the way you endure being laced
into a garment like a girl." Baralis crossed over to the low table that
had been set with food and drink, and poured himself a glass of wine.

Maybor was
furious, but he had enough presence of mind to realize that he would look quite
ridiculous getting angry while only half-dressed. He settled for an indignant
snort and hurriedly donned one of his fur-lined robes.

In the wake of
restored dignity came anger. "What in Borc's name are you doing
here?" he demanded. "Leave my tent this instant."

"Or
else?" Baralis didn't bother to look up. He was intent upon choosing a
piece of dried fruit.

Maybor hated the
cool arrogance of the man. "Come, now, Baralis. Is your memory so short
that you can't recall how handy I am with a sword?"

"My memory is
faultless, Maybor. However I don't perceive an old man with a sword to be much
of a threat."

Old man! Maybor
was prevented from issuing a scathing reply by the arrival of the messenger.
The young man had changed his clothes and shaven his beard.

"I am pleased
to find you both here," he said tactfully. "Yes, it was good of Lord
Maybor to offer his tent for this meeting," said Baralis. "Would you
care for some refreshment?"

Maybor did not
like this one bit. Baralis was acting like a benevolent host, and by doing so
was giving the messenger the idea that he was in charge. Maybor decided to play
the king's chancellor at his own game.