A Man Betrayed (13 page)

The captain
reluctantly agreed. "I will set a guard by the inn, in case you decide
upon a late-night departure."

"You are too
kind." Fiscel came as close to a bow as his twisted frame could muster. He
turned to Melli. "Follow me, girl. I am most anxious that this matter be
settled tonight."

Darkness came
early to Bren. The sun slipped behind the western mountains, and the city fell
victim to their shadows. On cold winter nights such as this, mist rose from the
great lake and cloaked the city in its icy pall.

Those who braved
the chill streets of Bren did so in search of what diversions the darkened city
afforded. Bren was not a city of music or culture, high cuisine or clever
conversation. Bren was a city of power. A city that knew the value of a strong
army and that praised the worth of a strong man. A night's entertainment for a
man of Bren-the women didn't count--consisted of a skin or two of cheap ale,
some wagering at the fighting pits and, if he had a few extra coppers left, an
hour's worth of whoring.

The whores of Bren
didn't roam the streets or ply the taverns, it was too cold for walking,
particularly in the sort of clothes they chose to wear. Instead, they worked
the brothels. These brothels were to be found close to the fighting pits. A man
who wins at wagering will likely feel the need of a woman to celebrate. The man
who loses needs a woman for commiseration. Not that women were the only sex on
offer, though Bren, as a soldiering city, officially frowned upon anything that
was not considered manly.

Still, most men
were drawn from their homes at night, leaving the warmth of the embered hearth
for the cold promise of the streets. Once sufficiently numbed against winter's
chill by a skin or two of ale, they would gather around the pits, hungry for
the sight of blood.

The fighting pits
had been present in Bren before there were any walls, before it was even a
city, when it had just been an ambitious town. Some said the pits first started
Bren's craving for bloodshed, others said it was merely a symptom of what had
always been present. The men of Bren cared little for such debates:
intellectual pursuits were for the priest and the weaklings. Fighting was what
counted.

The pits were
circular in shape, roughly four men across, and less than a man deep. The crowd
gathered around the edge and laid bets on whatever fight was taking place.

Tradition held
that the victor of the fight was thrown onethird of all money bet. However,
this was usually not adhered to unless the fighter was either especially good,
or had enforcers in the crowd. The rules of conflict were simple: the only
weapon allowed was the short-bladed hand knife, and once in the pit anything
was considered fair game. Victory could be claimed by either death,
unconsciousness, or submission.

In olden days,
long metal spikes had jutted from the walls of the pit, and the idea was to
impale one's victim. Too many people died that way-though the victors always
got their third-and the practice had stopped from lack of willing participants.
It was rumored that such matches could still be found, if one knew the right
people and were willing to pay the price.

Tawl lifted the
skin to his lips and drank deeply of the cheap ale. He then swung the skin
above his head and poured the remainder over his hair and face. The crowd was
bigger than last night. No doubt the story of the man whose arm he tore off had
spread. Nothing like a maiming for bringing in the crowds. He could see the men
looking his way, see their eyes appraising him and their whispering lips
discussing him. He could feel their excitement, their desire for blood and guts
and bone. He was repulsed by them.

But he would give
them what they wanted. He checked the linen wrap around his arm. The cloth was
closely bound; it would not slip. He had brought dishonor upon himself, but he
would not willingly bring it upon the knighthood. He'd tried to rid himself of
the mark: he burned his flesh and then rubbed sawdust into the wound; he'd
scored the skin with the edge of his sword, drawing a cross in blood. The
circles still remained. They taunted him with their presence and shamed him
with what they stood for. He was no longer a knight, but the circles would give
him no peace.

His eyes strayed
to his hands. There was blood beneath his nails; whose, he did not know.
Perhaps one-arm, perhaps the man before, or the man before that, perhaps even
Bevlin. It didn't matter. Blood was a fitting adornment.

Corsella came and
sat beside him. The deep cleft of her bosom, which was.exposed to the night
air, was goosepimpled. Tawl absently ran his blood-stained fingers over the
puckered flesh. "Did you bring more ale?"

Corsella, who was
young from a distance but aged with nearness, nodded. "I did, Tawl."
She hesitated a moment, and then took a deep breath. "I think you should
wait until the fight's over before you take any more."

Anger flared in
Tawl, and he smacked the woman full on the
lips. "Give me the ale,
bitch!"

Quick tears flared
but didn't fall. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She passed the
skin without a word. He drank more than he'd intended, just to spite her. The
ale gave him no joy, merely dulled his senses further. Of late that was the
most he could hope for.

He looked over to
the other side of the pit. A man, naked from the waist up, was being rubbed
with goose fat: his opponent. He was of average height yet well muscled, his
skin still smooth with youth. His face was beautiful, but not without
arrogance. Tawl had seen his kind before. He had made a name for himself in his
village and had come to the city hoping to repeat his triumph. The crowd was
clearly impressed by the boy's looks. They cheered as he presented himself for
their admiration. The goose fat, which was supposed to make it harder to get a
hold of him, served to show off his body to its best advantage.

Tawl knew what the
crowd was thinking. They looked at him and the boy, and then money changed
hands with wolflike speed. They expected the boy to win, but not before the
golden-haired stranger had put up quite a fight. Perhaps, if they were lucky,
someone might end up maimed or dead. Tawl took another draught of ale. Men
would lose money betting against him this night.

He stripped off
his leather tunic, and Corsella ventured forward with a pot of goose fat. He
shook his head. He wasn't going to be greased like a lamb for the spit. Nor
would he take off his linen undershirt; he wasn't about to give the crowd the
added spectacle of a chest covered with scars left by torture. They'd have to
pay more if they wanted to see those.

The boy stepped
down into the pit. The crowd applauded his smooth-skinned scowl and cheered
when his muscles caught the light. He seemed very young to Tawl.

Cries of street
vendors could be heard above the noise of the appraising crowd:

"Roasted
chestnuts! Red hot! Warm your hands and your belly. If the fight gets boring
you can always throw 'em."

"Extra strong
barley ale! Half a skin only two silvers. One drink will make the fight look
good and your wife look beautiful."

"Pork joints!
Hot from the ovens. A safer bet than any fighter."

The crowd quieted
as Tawl stood up. All eyes were upon him, and he fancied he saw regret in the
faces of some who bet against him. Too bad. He made his way to the edge of the
pit and jumped down to the stone floor below. The crowd was disappointed. The
boy, whose name was Handris, was putting on a show, displaying his muscles and
his noble profile to their best advantage. Tawl merely paced the pit, head
down, ignoring the crowd and his posturing opponent.

A red swath of
fabric was raised and then dropped into the pit. The fight had begun.

The boy circled,
looking for weak points. That was his first mistake. With every step he
unknowingly showed his own weaknesses. Tawl was a hawk on the wing. His years
of training and experience came back to him like a gift. He evaluated his
opponent almost without realizing what he did. The boy was nervous-that was
good. He knew how to carry his knife, though. His arms were well muscled, but
his flank and back were weak. Just above his belt there was a slight
discoloration: an old wound or bruise--probably still tender.

Tawl stood and let
the boy come to him. The boy swung forward with his knife. An instant later he
twisted round, kicking out with the back of his heel. Tawl was forced to step
away from the knife and in doing so left himself open for the kick. Pain
exploded in his shin. The boy's second mistake was not to use his advantage. He
let the appreciation of the crowd fill his ears and his mind. Tawl pounced
forward. His knife provided a distraction while he elbowed the boy's jaw. The
boy's head snapped back. Tawl allowed him no chance to steady himself. He was
on him again; a punch to the gut and then a rake of the knife along the boy's
arm.

At the sight of
blood, the crowd ah'ed in appreciation. Doubtless more money was wagered.

The boy was quick
to right himself. He had the lightning reflexes of youth. He sprang forward and
the force of his momentum carried them both to the ground. He brought his knife
up and pushed for Tawl's face. That was his third mistake=too much reliance on
his blade. Tawl raised his knee with all the force he could muster and slammed
it into his opponent's thigh. The boy reacted violently, and his knife cut into
Tawl's shoulder. Bright blood soaked through the linen.

The boy was still
on top of him, his knife poised for further thrusts. Something in the way the
boy held the blade reminded Tawl of a long shadow once cast in Bevlin's hut. He
tried to force the vision of the dead man from him. But when he succeeded, he
found the image of his sisters lying beneath. He was worthless. He'd failed his
family, his knighthood, and Bevlin. Anger became his weapon and his shield. A
rage came upon him, and suddenly he was no longer fighting a boy, he was
fighting against fate. Fighting against Larn and its lies, fighting against his
ambition and what it had made him.

He flung the boy
from him. He landed badly on his back. Tawl was over him in an instant. He
threw away his blade-it reminded him too much of the long-shadowed night. The
crowd was in a frenzy. There was fear in the eyes of the boy. Tawl went for his
throat, his fingers enclosing the muscled column. He felt the graze of the
boy's knife upon his flank. Not relieving his grip for an instant, Tawl knocked
it from his hand, using his elbow like a club. He kicked the knife away.

With his free arm,
he punched the boy time and time again. He knew no self-restraint. The only
thing that mattered was getting the demons off his back. Even then he knew they
would give him no peace. The boy's face became a bloody pulp. The crack of
broken bones sobered the now silent crowd.

Tawl took a deep
breath. When he let it out, he tried to let go of his rage. It was hard; with
rage came forgetfulness and even perhaps the semblance, no matter how
temporary, that he was in control. Only he wasn't, either way.

He got to his feet
and stood back from the lifeless body of the boy. The only noise in the chill
night was the sound of his own breath, quick and ragged. The crowd was waiting.
At first Tawl didn't understand why. Then he saw the red swath. It was lying
near the wall of the pit. He went over and picked it up. He held it aloft for
the crowd to see: the sign of victory.

The crowd erupted
into a riot of shouting and calling. Whether in delight or damnation, Tawl
didn't care. He felt something hard hit his shoulder, and then something at his
back. The crowd was throwing coins. Silver and gold. Soon the bottom of the pit
was aglow with the sparkle of coinage. The boy's friends came and dragged the
body away. Tawl wasn't sure if he was dead or alive. Corsella was lowered into
the pit and busied herself loading coins into her sack. All this time Tawl
hadn't moved, the red swath was still in his hand, its bright corners flapping
in the breeze.

Melli followed
Fiscel out of the garrison. The man's walk was almost comical; he lurched from
good leg to bad like a drunken cripple. His breathing was weak and irregular,
and was accompanied by a straining rasp of a sound that emanated from deep
within his chest. The smell of him filled her with revulsion. The overbearing
sweetness of exotic perfume barely masked the stench of the sickbed beneath.

Even though Melli
was a head taller than Fiscel, she wasn't sure that she could manage to
overpower him. Her wrist was still throbbing from earlier, when he had shown
her the force of his tight-fingered grip. Melli rubbed the sore spot. Fiscel's
body had power despite the look of it. She was not really worried about his
strength: it was his appearance that disturbed her the most. His face was a
grotesque mask; his good eye was quick and vulpine, his bad eye watery and dim.
He was physically repulsive, and it was this, more than any hidden strength,
that she was afraid of.

A guard drew back
the heavy wooden door and Melli stepped out into the dark Halcus night. The
wind brought tears to her eyes, and the terrible cold froze them on her cheeks.

Fiscel grabbed her
arm. His long fingernails dug into her flesh. He led her forward. At first she
could see nothing, then as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out a
shape in the blackness. It was a wagon, and three horses were harnessed to it.
Two of the horses were large and heavy, and one was slender of back and limb: a
rider's horse. A man dressed in a cloak of gray was attending to them.

Fiscel brought her
to the back of the wagon. He rapped sharply on the wood and the door swung
open. Melli felt the flesh-trader's hands upon her backside as he pushed her up
the step and into the wagon. The door was closed after her, and she found
herself in the company of two other women. The smell of bitter almonds filled
her nostrils. The wagon was lit by a small oil lamp. There was barely enough
space to contain the four straw pallets that lay aside each other. A brief
stretch of Isro carpet and several smooth-sided chests were the only other
contents.