A Man Betrayed (32 page)

"And the
guarantee?"

"I will have
it drawn up by the morrow."

"Good,"
said the duke. "I think that's everything, so I will let you take your
leave. You may consider the betrothal formalized."

A young girl,
ravishing to behold, with hair red and pale skin, entered the room. She saw the
two talking and quickly left. Before she closed the door, Baralis spied a large
bed in the adjoining room.

"And the
marriage date?"

"Let's wait
and see the ink upon the paper before we engrave the date in stone."

Baralis was
becoming impatient. "Keep the groom waiting too long and ardor might
cool."

"Push the
bride too quickly and she might frighten and run away." The duke came and
stood beside him. "I will give you a date within the month. Now, I have
other matters to see to." He bowed slightly."I trust you will come
and watch my champion fight the night after tomorrow. 'Tis put on in your
honor."

"Of course,
it will be interesting to see the best that Bren has to offer."

"You won't be
disappointed," said the duke.

Tavalisk was
eating brains. An overrated dish that required a lot of sauce to make
palatable. The archbishop was his own cook today, and he suspected the brains
were slightly overdone, for he'd been chewing the last piece for several
minutes and it still wasn't ready to swallow.

He hated fast
days. The Church recognized about forty fasts a year. They were supposed to
cleanse the spirit, elevate the mind, and expunge the body. In reality, they
just drove everyone to sin. Only prisoners and zealots fasted on holy days.
But, as in everything, appearances had to be kept up; the kitchens were
deserted, the butcher's blocks were dry, and behind shuttered windows a city
full of people ate furtively in the dark.

Tavalisk glanced
over to his lyre. Yesterday, in a fit of temper, he'd stepped on it. The
action, while producing his best ever note, had sadly flattened the instrument,
rendering it unplayable. The tambourine had met a similar, but slightly more
rewarding end, and his cat was now limping because of it. He'd finally given up
on music. Food had tempted like a courtesan, and music's charms had paled under
its lure.

In walked Gamil
without as much as a knock. The man was getting above himself. "Your
Eminence, the rumors are true."

"What rumors,
Gamil? Rorn has enough of them to set a fishwife whispering for a year."
Tavalisk seasoned the brains in the pot. "Talking of fishwives, how's your
dear mother?"

"Long dead,
Your Eminence."

The archbishop
fished out a portion of brain and tested it between his fingers. "Good,
good. Give her my regards."

"Lesketh is
dead. Kylock is now king."

Tavalisk dropped
the brain back into the pot. "Fair or foul?"

"By all
accounts, Your Eminence, the poor man died in his sleep."

"Foul,
then." The archbishop poured himself a cup of wine. "Now when
Catherine marries Kylock it will be a true joining of powers. Two such
well-positioned points from which to dominate the north. Baralis is a clever
dog, I'll give him that."

"How can you
be so sure that is his plan, Your Eminence?"

"Marod
predicted it, Gamil:
When two mighty powers join as one."
Tavalisk
took a long draught of wine. "We are witnessing the birth of the dark
empire."

"What can we
do to prevent it from happening, Your Eminence?"

"More than
you think, Gamil. There is nothing more vulnerable than a newborn." The
archbishop stirred the pot. "We can get the knights in trouble for one thing,
make friends in Bren for another, and most importantly we can alert the other
northern powers to Baralis' ambitions-perhaps even offer our support if it's
needed."

"But I don't
understand how stirring trouble with the knights will aid your cause."

"Our cause,
Gamil," corrected Tavalisk. "Unless of course you fancy living in a
world were there is no Church to pay your salary." Tavalisk was feeling
rather smug.

"I don't
understand, Your Eminence."

The archbishop
shook his head sadly. "Oh, Gamil, you do disappoint me. You've obviously
never read Marod's
Book of
Words. According to him, the dark empire will
bring with it the end of the Church. `The temples will fall,' he said."
Tavalisk looked quickly at his aide. That was quite enough for the moment; he'd
let Gamil chew a little before giving him the full meal. "As for the
knights, those hypocrites are in with the duke of Bren. Some of them even
fought in his last skirmish: the massacre at Luncom. That pathetic little town
paid dearly for its attempt at independence."

Tavalisk speared a
portion of gray matter and dipped it into the garlic butter. With so many
convoluted loops and folds, brains were made for sauce. "Goading Tyren is
our best way to get the south interested in what's happening in the north. The
knights are aggressively pursuing our trade, and the duke is helping them all
the way. If Bren becomes more powerful then so, by association, do the
knights."

The archbishop
took the pan off the heat. The brains were now so tough that they'd be put to
better use on the hull of a battleship. "Anyway, how is our four-city
force doing? Slain any knights yet?"

"No, Your
Eminence."

"How
unfortunate."

"But there
was an exchange, Your Eminence. Just north of Camlee. We seized eight
wagonloads of goods."

"Where are
those goods now, Gamil?"

"They are
being held in Camlee, awaiting further instructions."

Tavalisk smiled,
plump lips parting to show a glimpse of tiny white teeth. "Distribute the
goods evenly between Camlee, Marls, and Toolay. Rorn will have none of them.
Make sure the details of the split are well spread."

"But I don't
understand, Your Eminence."

"Really
Gamil, like a tree you grow thicker by the day. Tyren is going to be looking to
lay blame, and the cities that are holding the goods will look the guiltiest. I
want Tyren and his northern playmates to think that all of the south is against
him. With Marls, Camlee, and Toolay dividing the spoils, it certainly looks
that way. And no one can say that Rom instigated the whole affair as we haven't
got a bean to show for it." Tavalisk took a sip of wine. "Everything
is going beautifully. All we need now is a good slaughter. I'm thinking one
knight is no longer enough. Let's murder a troop of them."

"I'll pass on
Your Eminence's wishes."

"Discreet as
ever, Gamil."

"Of course,
Your Eminence. If there is nothing more, I will take my leave."

Tavalisk stood up
and handed the pot containing the braised brains to his aide. "Seeing as
no one's working in the kitchens today, Gamil, just run down and prepare me a
light dinner: meat, fish, pastries-you know what I like."

Gamil hid his
annoyance badly. He stalked out of the room, broth splashing from the pan. The
archbishop
tut-tutted;
his aide would have to clean up the stains when
he returned.

The steel drew
sparks when it met. Rovas was fighting like a demon. His face was red, and
sweat scattered at every turn of his head. "Thrust, thrust!" he
cried. Air burned in Jack's lungs. Frustration, not skill, was placing the
blade. He was desperate to get near the man, and Rovas, well aware of this, was
goading him to it. Again and again Jack lunged forward only to find his target
had neatly sidestepped.

They were
practicing in the meadow just south of the cottage. The blows exchanged had
long since lost the caution of the training bout. The blood snaking down Jack's
arm was proof of that.

Spring was close
and the snow no longer crackled underfoot. The sound of running water could be
heard in the distance and green spikes of grass cut through the white.

Jack had no time
to appreciate the changes of the season. Rovas was bent on defeating him.
"Come on," he goaded. "Take a go at me." Jack obliged the
man. He thrust forward, bracing his body for the blow.

Steel screeched
upon steel. Rovas was forced to step back. Jack remembered the smuggler's
words:
"Press any advantage, no matter how small. "
He
snatched his blade upward, forcing Rovas to raise both arms in defense. Quick
as a flash, Jack was in with the dagger. A rake across the wrist forced the man
to drop his shortsword. Kicking it away, Jack ensured the smuggler wouldn't get
it back. The man was left with his dagger.

Jack considered
his options. Rovas was fond of saying:
"Surprise is the greatest
weapon, "
so surprise him he would. He flung his dagger toward the smuggler's
chest. His aim was bad, but that didn't matter. The man was forced to turn to
the side. Jack lunged forward and pressed the point of his shortsword to Rovas'
chest. Rovas was forced to raise both arms in a sign of submission.

Jack had to resist
the temptation to smile. It was sweet indeed to see the smuggler at a loss for
both words
and
moves. "Do you surrender?" he said, voice
betraying no emotion.

Rovas bowed his
head and did not look up as he mumbled, "I do."

Removing his blade
from the man's chest, Jack said, "Quite a fight, eh, Rovas?" He
offered the smuggler his hand, but it wasn't taken.

"Think you're
smart now, don't you?" Rovas said. He walked over to where his shortsword
lay on the ground. "But that was just a lucky trick, nothing more."

Jack sat on the
ground. He didn't care that the wet snow soaked through his britches. His hair
was plastered to his face and he brushed it back. The stretch of leather with
which he normally tied it was nowhere to be seen. "Would you judge me
ready?"

"With
shortsword maybe. The longsword needs work and your bow skills are poor."

Jack smiled.
"You're a great flatterer."

Rovas smiled with
him. "Flattery only leads to one thing in my book."

"What's
that?"

"Fools."
They both laughed and the tension that had built steadily over the past week
was broken. "You did good, lad," said Rovas when they stopped.

"When do I
get the captain's name?"

Rovas stood up.
"Come help me paint some fish and I'll explain a few things."

Jack followed him
to the smuggler's hut. This time the place smelled of fish rather than offal.
"Here," said Rovas, handing him a cloth. "Hold that against the
wound." He then turned his attention to the fish. "These need to be
at market by noon."

"Judging by
the smell, they should have been there yesterday." Jack winced as he
pressed the cloth into the cut. "No matter, it's looks that count."

Jack noticed a
pig's carcass had been set to hang, throat down. The blood had drained into a
large bow. Rovas took the bowl, set it on the table, and then plunged his hands
into the blood. Hands dripping with partly coagulated blood, the smuggler
brushed them against the fish. The fish, which had been a sickly flesh color,
began to take on the look of a fresh catch.

"Now, about
this captain," said Rovas as he continued to paint the fish. "He's
situated in a garrison that holds twenty score of troops, so he's not going to
be easy to get to. You're going to have to enter the place at night, find him,
do away with him, and then shift yourself out of there sharpish." Jack was
surprised; he hadn't reckoned on this. "Is there any other way? Why can't
I take him by surprise when he's away from the garrison?"

"You won't
get near him. He never goes anywhere without a score of guards. They'd have you
down in an instant."

Logical, but some
shred of instinct deep within Jack warned him to doubt the smuggler's word.
"I could pick him out with a bow."

Rovas shook his
head. "No, lad, you're no archer. One misplaced arrow and the captain's
guard would be down on you like vultures. My plan's best. Catch him when he's
vulnerable. Sneak in, sneak out." The smuggler was up to his elbows in
blood. "Besides, I know the garrison like the back of my hand; there's a
couple of useful tunnels in there. Help you escape real fast, they will."

Jack was still
suspicious. "If they'll help me escape, why won't they help me
enter?"

"Tunnels like
that are always bolted on the inside." There was a trace of woodenness in
Rovas' voice, as if he'd uttered a set piece from a play. Perhaps aware of this
himself, he hurried on in a more natural tone: "We'll pick a feast night,
that way all the soldiers will be the worse for ale. Spring Blessing begins
next week, so everyone's guard will be lowered by drink. It'll be
perfect."

Wary, but not sure
why, Jack tried to throw Rovas off guard. "Tarissa told me the reason why
you wanted the captain dead."

The smuggler
looked up from his work. "Did she, eh? Well, it wasn't her business
to."

Jack was tempted
to tell him that he knew Tarissa was supposed to kill the captain, but he
stopped himself. Saying the words would only make him angry, and for the moment
he was after information, not conflict. "So you and the captain were
business partners?"

"Aye, and
then the bastard got greedy. I pulled out of the arrangement, and now he's
stooped to blackmail. Ten golds a month it costs me to stop him from running to
the authorities." All the fish were now glowing with health thanks to the
pig's blood, so Rovas wiped his hands on a cloth. "He's bleeding me
dry."

"And the
night of Spring Blessing you'll be rid of your problem." Despite the
warning voice in his head, Jack was excited. The time was drawing near. Only
when the Halcus captain was out of the way would he be free to live his own
life, to go where he wanted and to do whatever he chose. He already knew where
he wanted to go: Bren. His thoughts kept returning to the city. Even before
Rovas had told him about Catherine of Bren's marriage to Kylock, Jack had felt
a desire to go there. Sometimes in his dreams he saw a city with high
battlements, nestled by the foot of a great mountain. It was Bren, he was
certain of it.