A Man Betrayed (9 page)

"Seeing as
you are playing mother, Baralis, pour me a glass of wine and slice me some
venison." He watched with glee as Baralis was obliged to comply with his
request.

"Such thin
slices. I can see you have no taste for red meat." Baralis handed the
platter to him. The meat was tough, but the look of indignation on Baralis'
face was tenderizer enough.

"So, tell me,
young man. What are you called?" Maybor was not going to allow Baralis to
take the lead again.

"My name is
Durvil, sir." The young man looked nervous. The undercurrent of hostility
in the tent had not gone unnoticed.

"Well,
Durvil. Tell me the exact manner of the king's death."

"He died in
his sleep, my lord. A most peaceful death by all accounts. He was found by the
Master of the Bath in the morning. He was already stiff and cold."

"Was the
Master of the Bath present in the king's chamber all through the night?"
asked Baralis.

"The Master
of the Bath sleeps in a room just off the king's chamber, my lord."

"Foul play
wasn't suspected?"

"No, Lord
Baralis. No one could gain access to the king's chamber without being spotted
by the royal guard."

"But still,
the Master of the Bath was asleep all night?"

"Yes."

Maybor wondered
why Baralis was so concerned with the possibility of foul play. The king had
been a doddering, slavering invalid for over five years now; it was no surprise
that he had finally done the decent thing and dropped dead. "Exactly how
many days ago did this happen?" he asked. "A week after you left,
sir."

"So the king
has been dead almost three weeks, then?"

"Yes,
sir."

"How did the
queen take the news?" asked Baralis. Maybor was rankled; the king's
chancellor was asking better questions than he.

"The queen
was most distressed. She locked herself up with the body and would not let
anyone tend to it for over a day. In the end, the king had to order that she be
taken away by force."

The king. It was a
shock to hear it: Kylock now a king. "Is the queen well? She is not being
held?" Baralis again, always rooting deeper.

"No, sir. The
king would not do such a thing to his mother." There was indignation in
the messenger's words. "already the new king was commanding a measure of
loyalty. The day I left, His Majesty was bidding her a fond farewell."

"Farewell?"

"Yes. The
queen elected to leave the court and retire to her castle in the
Northlands."

"Does it not
strike you as strange that a woman, no longer young, would risk her health by
embarking on such a long journey in the frozen grip of winter?"

Maybor had to
admit that Baralis had a point there.

"No, sir.
Kylock assured the court that it was what she wanted. He sent a handsome
detachment of the royal guard to escort her."

"Hmm."
Baralis allowed this skeptical syllable to hang in the air a moment before
saying, "And' what of Kylock? Does he still wish the proposed betrothal
between himself. and Catherine of Bren to go ahead?"

"Yes, indeed,
my lord. He is most anxious for the union."

The look of relief
on Baralis' face was fleeting but unmistakable.

"Surely now
that Kylock is king, he has no need for two envoys?" An idea was beginning
to form in Maybor's mind. "His Majesty expressly bid me state that he
still wanted both of you to serve as his envoys."

"_I am king's
envoy," said Maybor, feeling rather pleased with himself. "Lord
Baralis is prince's envoy. Only there is no longer any prince."

"I beg your
pardon, Lord Maybor," said Baralis, "but I believe I was appointed
Kylock's
envoy."

"Did the king
express any wishes on the matter of who between us would take precedence?"
Maybor was thinking that if Kylock had said nothing on the matter, that would
mean things would go on as they were, with him as the superior envoy.

"King Kylock
expressed the wish that you sort out such matters amicably between yourselves.
He is confident in both your abilities to strike a favorable contract."

Maybor was not
entirely happy with this reply, and he expected Baralis felt the same way. His
confidence was still high, though. He was, after all, king's envoy. He took a
deep draught of wine and settled back amidst the silken cushions. He was
surprised by Baralis' next question. "What were Kylock's first actions
upon becoming king?"

"The king did
everything expected of him, my lord. He kept vigil in the great hall and prayed
for God's guidance."

"I don't want
to know about all the ceremonies he was obliged to perform for show. Has he
passed any laws? Taken any actions? Ordered any executions?" Maybor
detected a certain anxiety behind Baralis' words.

"I was sent
out two days after the king's death." The messenger's tone was one of
subtle reprimand. "Kylock had not taken any actions. He was deep in
mourning for his father."

"What of the
war?" persisted Baralis.

"I believe
the king did express the wish that the war finally be won."

Baralis, having
squeezed this information out of the messenger, seemed to withdraw into
himself. Maybor couldn't figure out what was so important about the statement.
Surely it was only fitting that Kylock state his commitment to winning the war
with the Halcus. If things had turned out differently, and he had been Kylock's
father-inlaw, he would have urged the new king to win the war as quickly as
possible. In fact, it was high time the Halcus were sent back to their
filth-ridden hovels once and for all. He had missed too many apple-growing
seasons because of them.

"If you will
excuse me, my lords, I will retire," said the messenger. "I have
ridden a long journey and am weary to the bone."

Maybor nodded his
assent, and the messenger bowed and then left.

Baralis stood up,
smoothing his robes with his crooked hands. "I bid you good day, Lord
Maybor," he said with a thin show of courtesy. As he passed by Maybor, he
forced something cool and smooth into the lord's hands. "I believe you
dropped this earlier."

After he'd left, Maybor
opened his palm. In it was a gold coin. He did not need to look at it closely
to know it was the same one he had given to the steward outside the tent an
hour before.

Tavalisk was
eating blood pudding. True, it was a peasant dish and therefore low on his list
of culinary favorites, but every now and then he felt the need to delve into
the fare of his childhood. His servants knew nothing about this, of course. He
told them he occasionally ate such things as blood pudding and tripe to feel
empathy for the peasants who were forced to live on such foods. He made sure
this excuse was well publicized, and what had been a liability-his occasional
yearning for foods from his impoverished youth-had now turned into an asset.
The people of Rom admired his attempts to eat as they ate; it added to his
reputation as a man of the people. And Rom was a city that was at the mercy of
its people.

Tavalisk cut
himself a portion of the pudding, marveling in its rich, black color. Blood,
when dripped from a carcass, usually a freshly slaughtered lamb, was stirred
over a flame until it thickened and turned black. Chunks of fat and seasonings
were added, and the ingredients were then stuffed into a casing and boiled.
When prepared correctly, the pudding should have a dense grainy texture that
spoke of the grave.

Tavalisk spit out
a chunk of fat. He was only interested in the blood.

The archbishop
knew he should be a happy man; the interfering old fool Bevlin was finally out
of the way. The wiseman had been a thom in his side for years. Only now he
found himself feeling rather apprehensive about the future: Bevlin was gone,
events in Bren were moving swiftly, and the Knights of Valdis were a constant
thom in his side. Trouble that had been simmering for months, even years, seemed
close to coming to the boil.

More and more,
Tavalisk found his thoughts heading north toward Bren. The coming drama would
be staged in that most deadly of cities. If Marod was right,
he
would
have a leading part in what was to come. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of
the archbishop's mouth. If Marod was wrong, then damn him! He'd still steal the
show anyway.

A knock sounded
and Gamil entered carrying Tavalisk's cat. Gamil's face was sporting ag vicious
and still bleeding scratch.

"I finally
located your cat, Your Eminence."

"What took
you so long? You've been gone for hours."

"The cat was
hiding on the compost heap at the far end of the gardens, Your Eminence. It was
most reluctant to be brought back."

The archbishop
tempted the cat forward with a morsel of pudding. "Really, Gamil, it's
most inconsiderate of you to bleed on my best silk rug."

Gamil hastily
daubed the blood from his face with the corner of his robe. "I apologize
for bleeding, Your Eminence."

"Good. Now,
what news have you?"

"Well, our
spies have tracked the knight as far as Bren. Apparently the young man is not
acting like himself."

"Who, pray
tell, is he acting like, then?" Bren again: its very name was enough to
make the archbishop's heart beat faster. He reluctantly pushed the dish of pudding
to one side; his physician had told him he was slightly overweight and should
consider eating less. Advised him to take up music instead. Music, indeed!

"He's acting
like a scoundrel, Your Eminence. Womanizing, drinking, brawling: causing
trouble with every step."

"So he's
actually having some fun for a change. He needed to loosen up a little, if you
ask me. He was a little too noble for his own good." Tavalisk lifted a
pudgy arm to the light. The porcelain-pale flesh wobbled like aspic.

"You don't
think me fat, do you, Gamil?"

"No, Your
Eminence. You have a most. . ." Gamil paused as he searched for the right
phrase, ". . . a most magnitudinous bearing."

"Magnitudinous."
The archbishop liked the sound of the word on his lips. "I think you're
right, Gamil. I'm a long way from fat, I'm magnitudinous." He favored his
aide with a smile. "So, back to other matters. What else have you for me
this day?"

"Not much,
Your Eminence. The young boy is still following the knight, and we still don't
know why Larn arranged the assassination of Bevlin."

"Really,
Gamil, sometimes I think you have the mental capacity of that pudding over
there. It's obvious to me why Lam had Bevlin bumped off. Bevlin had been trying
to put an end to the practices on the island for years now. The old fool was
never happy unless he was imposing his moral values upon others. Personally, I
think there is nothing wrong with being bound to a rock. I hear they get fed
regular meals."

"Your
Eminence is a great humanitarian."

"Alas, Gamil,
it is a weight I have to bear." Tavalisk took a swing at the cat, sending
it flying into the air. If
he
couldn't have any more pudding, then
neither could his cat. "Any news of the knights?"

"Tyren is
said to be fuming over the expulsions, Your Eminence. He may not take things as
passively as we thought." -

"We
thought,
Gamil. We thought no such thing. I thought they would be likely to treat the
expulsions as a gauntlet thrown in their face, and it seems I was right. They
will rise to the challenge."

"That could
mean war, Your Eminence."

"Perhaps. We
will have to wait and see how the north reacts." The archbishop smiled.
"Anyway, I fear the whole thing may have been fated from the start."

"What gives
Your Eminence cause for such thought?" Tavalisk looked at Gamil a moment,
considering. His fingers strayed to the book on his desk. These days Marod was
never far from his reach. His aide looked a little too eager for Tavalisk's
liking, so he shrugged negligently." 'Tis nothing, merely a hunch,"
he said. "You must never forget that I am archbishop, Gamil, and therefore
blessed with divine insight from time to time." He was not ready to share
his revelation just yet. "Be sure to keep a careful eye on Valdis and Bren
in the coming months, Gamil."

"Certainly,
Your Eminence. If there is nothing further, I will take my leave."

"Just a quick
word of advice before you go, Gamil. I'd get that cut seen to, if I were you.
With a face such as yours, you can ill afford yet another disfigurement."

The door opened,
and something was thrown at her. Melli panicked for a moment, thinking it a
knife or a club. The object missed and landed on the ground beside her. It was
a loaf of bread. Her captors were being most generous with their food. She had
already been served three meals that day. Melli got the distinct impression she
was being fattened like a feast-day goose. The way they were going, she'd be
served buttermilk and pig fat next, to promote a shiny coat.

Melli was in a
small, dark root cellar. She was alone and bitterly cold. She had been brought
here the day before. The company had ridden up to a large garrison, and the
captain had led her beneath the innermost building. He left strict orders with
the guards to keep her well fed and not to come near her. The guards had
complied. She had only seen their shadowy forms in the doorway as they pushed
platters of food into the cellar.

She had spent a
cold and lonely night huddled in a corner for warmth. Her one comfort was that
at least Jack was free. Melli had noticed how little he liked being holed up in
the chicken coop for a few days. To be stuck here, with no power to open the
door, might have been too much for him.

Not for her,
though. She was getting quite used to captivity. One way or another, she had
been a captive all her life.

Melli knew she was
lucky. She had talked herself out of the fate of Lady Varella. Whatever
happened next, she could take comfort in the fact that she would have all ten
fingers left to deal with it. Melli tore open the loaf and began to chew on the
rubbery and over-yeasted bread. For the first time it occurred to her that what
happened to Lady Varella was as much the fault of the kingdoms as the Halcus.
If her husband had welcomed her back lovingly, instead of making her feel like
a useless, hideous invalid, then she wouldn't have been driven to suicide. A
woman in the kingdoms was only as valuable as her appearance, and a woman with
two fingers couldn't even make herself useful at the spinning wheel-as was
expected of those with no claim to beauty. So Varella had no value, and she
knew it, and did the only decent thing she could do: remove the burden from her
husband and family.