A Man Betrayed (29 page)

"No, Bodger.
The women of Bren like their men short and hairy."

"So you're in
with a chance, then, Grift."

"We both are,
Bodger."

"I may be
short, Grift, but I'm definitely not hairy."

"You seen the
back of your neck lately? I wouldn't want to be around you come a full
moon."

"You don't
believe all those old wives' tales about werewolves, do you, Grift?"

"Have you
noticed, Bodger, that it's always the old wives who live the longest?"

"What d'you
mean, Grift?"

"I mean,
Bodger, that they live that long because they know all the perils. You won't
catch an old wife going out on a full moon without a supply of prunes."

"Prunes, Grift?"

"Aye, prunes,
Bodger. The deadliest of fruits."

"How so,
Grift?"

"Well,
there's two things werewolves want to do with women: rollick 'em and then eat
'em. And I don't know if you've every rollicked a girl who's been pruning,
Bodger, but let me tell you, it ain't pleasant."

Bodger shook his
head sagely. "What about the eating part, Grift?"

"No one likes
the taste of prunes, Bodger. Not even werewolves."

The two men
toasted to Grift's good sense and settled back in their chairs.

"So who told
you about the women of Bren, Grift?"

"Gatekeeper,
name of Longtoad. Apparently it's the women of
Rorn
who go for tall men.
Anyway, he told me a few interesting things about the duke."

"What about
the duke, Grift?"

"By all
accounts the man has the sexual appetite of an owl, Bodger. He just about lives
for rollickin'. But he's fussy, if you know what I mean."

"Fussy?"

"Aye. He's
got a deep fear of catching the ghones. According to Longtoad, that's how his
father died. The late duke hit the deck soon after his plums did. So the
current duke only rollicks women who have never been touched."

"Ugly women,
is that, Grift?"

"No, you
fool, virgins. It's the only certain way of ensuring a girl ain't got the
ghones." Grift finished his ale. "Well, Bodger, I think it's time we
were going, those pews won't clean themselves."

"It was an
inspired move of yours, Grift, to get in with the chaplain. If it wasn't for
that, we'd be stuck in the stables looking after the horses."

"Aye, Bodger.
My powers of persuasion are matched only by the power of my intellect."

Every eighth step
there was horse dung. A mathematical oddity, but true nonetheless. Perhaps
horses got together to arrange it like that, because there was just enough
distance between droppings to lure a man into a false sense of security and
then
splat!
Dung on his shoes.

Nabber was
spending a lot of time looking at his feet. He told himself it was because of
the dangers of dirt, but really it was because he was feeling a strange new
emotion: guilt. He'd heard about guilt before, stories of people being stricken
with it, of sorrow and madness. Swift himself had adamantly maintained that
"guilt
is the death of a pocket, "
so Nabber had come to the logical
conclusion that it was a sort of vague disease that could kill a man unless he
found a cure.

It was all Tawl's
fault. Somehow the knight had managed to give him a bad dose of guilt. Here he
was, man of the world, doing what every self-respecting dealer was supposed to
do-make deals-yet he was feeling as if he'd committed the crime of the century.
It had gotten so bad that he could hardly look a man in the face and had taken
to looking at the ground with all the intent of a smircher looking for gold.

Everything had
been going fine until he'd gotten the rat oil woman involved. After that it had
gone downhill faster than a greased archbishop. What had possessed him to tell
that smug dandy of a fighter, Blayze, that Tawl had a shameful past? It had
seemed like inspiration from the gods at the time-a sure way of goading the
knight into agreeing to the match. It had worked, too. From his vantage point
behind a tree at the corner of the square, he'd seen it all: the discussion,
the tussle, the women, and the guards. He'd even heard Tawl say he was up for
the fight. What was the matter, then? Why did he feel so bad?

Looking back,
Nabber tried to pinpoint the exact moment when he'd begun to feel the first
pangs of guilt.

It was about the
time when Tawl wandered off alone, leaving Madame Thomypurse and her
straw-haired daughter Corsella to talk to Blayze. Big ears weren't enough to
hear what passed between the three. That in itself was a bad sign: according to
Swift,
"the worse the plot, the quieter the plot
ting. "
Something had gone down there by the three golden fountains-Nabber was sure of
it-and it boded no good for the knight.

Guilt had been
festering ever since, and he had to do something about it before it killed him.

Nabber's feet
picked a path to Brotheling Street. The loot in his pack jangling as he walked.
Each clink of coinage served to irritate his already chronic condition. He'd
done well by Blayze. The man had given him twenty golds, not to mention the ten
slivers he'd pocketed from Madame Thornypurse herself whilst they were talking
in the Brimming Bucket-there was one lady who knew how to conceal her
valuables! After all, it was only fair that he reclaimed as much of Tawl's gold
as possible, and Nabber was quite certain that the pouchful of loot suspended
from Madame Thomypurse's underdrawers rightly belonged to the knight. So, all things
considered, he'd made a pretty profit from the whole affair.

That was only part
of the problem. What if the knight lost the fight? Or worse, what if he died?
He, Nabber, would be left holding the loot, and as he was already suffering
from chronic guilt, such a blow would surely finish him off.

Best to make sure
it never happened. To save the knight would be the same as saving himself.

He arrived by the
red-shuttered building. For some reason, knocking at the door didn't seem like
a good idea, so Nabber slipped down the adjoining alleyway and sought out the
warped window casing that had proven so useful many nights earlier.

The place was
decidedly dark and dingy inside. Too early for business, a few tired-looking
girls lounged around the benches, intent on getting drunk before the punters
arrived. Madame Thornypurse was nowhere to be seen. A flash of bright hair
marked Corsella, busy rubbing rouge into her sour, little face. Disappointed,
Nabber was about to turn away when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone
retching-a familiar noise to a boy who at one time had the dubious privilege of
living next door to the most notorious mass poisoner in Rom: Master Sourgill,
the proprietor of Sourgill's Fresh Fish Tavern.

The retching was
followed by a painful, hacking cough, and then Corsella piped up: "Ssh,
Tawl, you'll wake Mother."

The knight was
obviously in an adjoining room, so Nabber worked his way around to the back of
the building. The smell, which had been bad enough in the alleyway, rose to the
level of an overpowering stench. The source was an open ditch. It ran along the
length of the street and was filled with things so appalling that even Nabber
didn't care to look at them.

Finding an
eye-hole was not as easy as he'd hoped. Eventually he pulled some sick-looking
greenery from its place on a ledge. The resulting fissure was crawling with
spiders, but provided a view into the back of the building.

Tawl was crouched
on the floor, shivering from head to foot. For a brief moment Nabber was
transported back to Bevlin's cottage, to the time when the knight rocked the
dead man in his arms. The shock of remembrance cooled his skin and set his
hands trembling. The young pickpocket was suddenly struck with the sense that
he was dealing with things far beyond his ken. His life had always been
straightforward: see it, want it, take it. There was profit, food, and dicing.
Yet on the other side of the wall crouched a man to whom none of that mattered,
and strangely, Nabber felt drawn to him for that very reason. He had no word
for love, no inkling how to use it. Friendship was all that his experiences had
allowed. So the extreme anger he felt toward the person who had done this-for
he was no fool and guessed that a certain rodentoiled hand was responsible-he
attributed to that one familiar concept.

The guilt was so
bad he thought he would be struck down where he stood. It was most definitely
time to pay the lady of the house an unexpected visit.

"Thank you,
my man, just leave it on the table." Maybor waved a languorous dismissal.
The second the door was closed, however, he fell on the box like a wolf on a
fawn. Messages from the kingdoms.

Several dull
scrolls from his overseer concerned with dwindling winter supplies, a note from
his servant Crandle advising him that he was still too ill to make the journey
to Bren, and then the interesting stuff. A letter from Kedrac, and a missive,
complete with ribbons and wax, written in a hand that he had seen only once
before. The last time the letter had been delivered by an eagle.

Maybor turned to
his son's letter first. The handwriting was large and familiar, so it was
relatively easy for him to read.

Good. Kedrac had
seen sense over the chambermaid affair, stating that, "No
woman,
especially a dead one, should be allowed power enough to break the bonds
between father and son. "

The boy knew how
to choose his words. Maybor was well pleased. Kedrac was now his again and,
with Melliandra gone perhaps never to return, he valued what remained of his
family more highly. As he read on, joy turned to excitement. Kedrac was talking
about the new king. Apparently Kylock was turning out to be quite a leader:
"Father,
he is brilliant. His plan for defeating the Halcus is both daring and inspired.
He intends to send a battalion into enemy territory and attack the border
forces from the rear. "

Maybor drew a hand
to his face and scratched his chin reflectively. If Kylock succeeded, it would
certainly put an end to the stalemate, though it seemed rather an aggressive
act for a country whose only concern was supposed to be securing its borders.
Baralis would not be pleased about this. As he folded his son's letter, a
wicked smile stretched across Maybor's lips. Kedrac had provided him with an
interesting morsel to let drop upon the duke's plate. He was going to have to
be careful with his politicking. No one must know that he was against the
match, not even his son, for it seemed from the letter that Kedrac admired his
sovereign. Perhaps was even privy to Kylock's inner council: plans of attack were
a covert business. Yes, discretion was most definitely called for. Best not to
risk the anger of the newly crowned king.

On to the next
letter. Waxed, but not sealed. According to Crandle, it had arrived a few days
after he'd left for Bren. With fingers a little stiffer than he'd like, Maybor
unraveled the scroll. Damned foreign handwriting! All loops and fancy dangles-a
man could ruin his eyesight just deciphering it. Slowly the words took shape.
It was the second letter from the mysterious would-be conspirator from a city
far in the south. Only not so mysterious now:
"You rightly guessed that
I am a man of the Church. Ask yourself this, then: who is the only man of God
who holds power worth the wielding?"
It had to be the archbishop of
Rorn. A small yet very intense thrill passed down Maybor's back. He was
intriguing on a grand scale now. Reading on, he found more to his liking:
"The
union between Bren and the kingdoms will cast a broad shadow over the north. He
who is responsible for the joining will guide its progress. "
And
then, further down the page: "If you
harbor the desire to oppose the
match, you will find the might of the south behind
you. " The
archbishop was obviously not a man to parry words like a love poet.

Maybor put down
the letter and took up his cup. All in all, two very interesting exchanges. He
felt as if he'd been endowed with new power. There was a danger here, though.

The worst kind:
personal danger. To be a thorn in Baralis' side was one thing, to risk his own
lands and position was quite another. His step must be light and his voice as
quiet and beguiling as an angel.

Dipping quill into
ink, he set about writing a reply to the letter from the east. The task took
many hours, Maybor learning subtlety as he wrote.

Nabber knocked loudly
on the door. "Open up! Open up! Duke's business."

Corsella, freshly
rouged and all the worse for it, answered. She took one look at him, and said,
"Bugger off, you little snot."

Foot in the door,
Nabber pressed his advantage. "I'm a friend of your mother's. I was
talking with her the other day in the Brimming Bucket. It was me who arranged
the fight for Tawl."

"You do look
sort of familiar. Who are you, then?" Corsella, while matching Madame
Thornypurse in looks, obviously fell short of her mother's intelligence. Which
suited Nabber nicely.

"I'm Blayze's
brother..." Nabber searched for an appropriate name ". . . Scorch.
And I must have a word with your mother as soon as possible."

Corsella simpered
in memory of the handsome champion. "You don't look like him."

"Aah, well,
he's got my father's nose. Mine came from a distant uncle."

"Hmm."

"Look, I
really don't care whether you believe me or not, but how will your mother react
when she finds you closed the door on the duke's own messenger?"

Madame Thornypurse
was obviously less than a loving mother, for Corsella thought for a moment, and
then said, "You better come in."

She led him
through to the large open room he'd spied on from the alleyway. The lounging
ladies merely ignored him. A large man who he'd never noticed before was
sitting in the corner putting an edge to his blade. Nabber was silently praying
that Tawl would stay in the back of the house; now was not the time to be
recognized. A few minutes later Corsella returned.