A Man Betrayed (37 page)

The merchant's
interest visibly increased. "Which wealthy lord?"

"Can't say,
but there might be something in it for you if you can help me out a
little." Traff moved closer. "I'm looking for a woman."

"What is she
to the lord?" The merchant's breath reeked of onions.

"Trouble, if
you get my drift." Traff waited until the man nodded and then continued.
"She's pale skinned, dark haired, talks with a kingdoms' accent."

"Is she
tall?" asked the merchant, becoming excited. "And comely?"

Traff nodded.
"A rare beauty. Why, have you seen her?"

"A girl
matching her description was in town about three weeks back. She stopped the
night in this tavern. I saw her with my own eyes. Caused quite a scandal, by
all accounts. The man she was traveling with murdered a soldier, and she was
caught by Captain Vanly."

Traff worked to
conceal his excitement. This was the first word he'd heard of Melli since he
left the kingdoms. "Where is she now?"

"Vanly sold
her." The merchant drew excited little breaths. "It was the talk of
the town. He made quite a profit, you know-because she was a virgin."

"Who bought
her?"

"Flesh-trader,
name of Fiscel. Last I heard, he was traveling east."

"Toward
Bren?"

The merchant
shrugged. "He'll probably pass that way to pick up a few extra girls, but
I doubt if he'll stop. There's more money to be made in the Far South."

"What
happened to the boy she was with?"

"Got clean
away." The merchant's eyes narrowed. "What about that little
something for myself you promised?" Traff had been waiting for this.
"There's five golds if it's her that you saw. Outside in my wagon I have a
portrait of her. Come and take a look at it and then we'll call the matter
settled."

The merchant
nearly leapt from his chair. On the way out of the door, Traff called to the
tavern maid, "Back in five minutes."

The night was cold
and clear. Their breaths plumed smoke in the air. As they rounded the corner,
Traff drew his knife. Seeing no wagon, the merchant turned, puzzled. Seeing the
blade, he made to scream. The sound never left his lips. With one hand Traff grabbed
the man's forelock and yanked his head back, with the other he slit his throat.
The body stiffened for an instant and then fell backward. Traff caught it and
drew it to the ground.

He took a quick
look around. It was too late for passersby. Tearing at the dead man's clothing,
he started looking for loot. He couldn't find any. The body was heavy, awkward,
hard to move. In his anger, Traff took his knife and sliced the man's clothes
to ribbons. As the bloodstained tunic fell away, Traff spotted a pouch tied
below the dead man's belly. He seized it eagerly. It contained a couple of
golds, five silvers, and a large, finely cut ruby. A fair haul.

His intention had
been to hide the body and spend the night in the inn, but that now seemed too
risky, and the idea of moving the fat man didn't appeal to him at all. He
kicked the corpse a couple of times for good measure and then made his way out
of town. Bren was his destination. He'd be able to pick up Melli's trail there.

Traff whistled a
tune as he walked. It was a fine night; his betrothed was alive and well and
still a virgin. He couldn't hope for anything more.

Jack was woken by
Rovas shaking him roughly. "Sleeping a it late, aren't you?" he said.

Jack was thrown
into an immediate panic. Where was Tarissa? Where were her clothes? What sort
of state had they left the kitchen in? Had they even bothered to close the
shutter? Jack scanned his surroundings. Everything was as it should be: his
pallet was neat, the kitchen was tidy, and the shutter was firmly closed. A
sigh of relief escaped him. Too late he realized Rovas was watching.

The smuggler's
eyes narrowed sharply. "Were you up in the night?"

"What makes
you say that?" His second mistake: answering a question with a question.

"The fire has
gone out. Someone has stirred the life out of the ashes."

"Oh, that. It
got a little cold about midnight." Jack stood up and splashed some water
on his face. Although his back was toward Rovas, he could tell that the man was
looking at him. He didn't feel in the mood to play games. What had happened
last night was too precious, too intimate, to be spoiled by ugly suspicions.
Jack turned on Rovas. "If you have something to say, come out and say
it."

The smuggler
regarded Jack coolly. "I do have something to say and this is it: keep
your hands, your eyes, and your mind away from Tarissa."

"Or
else?"

"I'll kill
you."

Both men turned as
the side door opened. Tarissa walked in, carrying a basket of washing. She took
in the scene and walked straight over to Jack. Slapping him hard on the face,
she said, "You kept Mother and me awake half the night with your pacing
around. Next time you can't sleep at least try to be quiet." She was
magnificent: eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, her whole body trembling with
anger. Jack wanted to kiss her. He could see the effect her outburst was having
on Rovas. The man looked first astonished, then confused, and finally decidedly
sheepish. "I don't know what you're smiling about, Rovas," she said.
"It's normally your snoring that haunts my dreams."

"I don't
snore, woman," he replied.

"No, and
you're a good and honest shopkeeper, too." All three of them laughed.
Rovas patted Jack on the shoulder in way of an apology. Jack's first instinct
was to pull away, but Tarissa flashed him a warning glance. She had not gone to
the trouble of putting on a performance for it to be ruined by the supporting
cast. He made an effort for her and accepted the smuggler's touch. Looking up,
Jack saw Magra in the doorway. Her face was an unreadable mask.

"Well, I've got
to be off," said Rovas. "There's a man in town who's spent the last
three days carving peppercorns out of wood, he should have enough by now to
double my pepper weight and triple my profits." He tucked a loaf of bread
in his belt and made his way toward the door. "I'll be back before
dark."

As soon as the
door was closed, Magra said to Tarissa, "I suppose you're rather pleased
with yourself. You were having quite some fun making Rovas look a fool."

"Mother
I-"

Jack interrupted.
"It's not Tarissa's fault."

"I
know." The older woman looked suddenly tired. She sat down by the fire and
poured herself a cup of mulled holk. "Jack, we owe Rovas more than you can
imagine. Over twenty years ago, when he was not much older than a boy himself,
he took us in: me a hated foreigner and Tarissa just a babe in arms. We can
never repay him for that. Never."

Tarissa was
looking down at the floor. A flush of guilt rose up her neck. "I'm sorry,
Mother." She reached for Jack's hand and squeezed it gently. It was a
gesture intended to silence him. She didn't want him contradicting anything
that was said about Rovas.

Magra shook her
head. "No, you were right to do what you did. It was for the best."

Jack's thoughts
returned to the night when Rovas kicked the wood scuttle across the room. Magra
was right: it was for the best. Not for himself-Rovas didn't frighten him-but
for the two women who had no choice but to live with the man. Jack wanted to
take them away, both of them, and give them a home free of guilt and
obligation. Rovas would stop at nothing to keep control of his makeshift
family-blackmail, murder, coercion-and it was time someone brought an end to
his twenty-year reign of terror.

Last night had
changed everything. Tarissa had given herself to him. There was no other way to
describe it; she had sensed his grief and in one beautiful, selfless gesture
she used her body to ease the pain.

After need, came
passion. How long they spent cradled between the rushes and the moonlight Jack
would never know. It had seemed like an eternity. And later, much later, there
had been hours when Tarissa lay sleeping in his arms. Yet she still had time to
steal away, gather up her clothes, tidy the pallet, and close the reproachful
shutter. This moming she had saved him again.

For the first time
in his life he had a true debt to repay. Falk had given him gifts just as
precious as Tarissa's, but he had denied him the honor of repaying them. Not so
with Tarissa. Jack's mind raced forward. He would take her away from the
cottage, work to give her a new home, good food, and fine clothes. There would
be no trip to Bren, no wandering off to find action and adventure. That wasn't
important now.

Something had
happened last night. He couldn't begin to understand what, but it had changed
everything. For months now he had felt as if he were being pulled forward,
pulled toward events and places that were not of his choosing. This morning the
tension had gone.

Other things
mattered now. All his life he had wanted a family, and here, in front of his
eyes, there was one for the taking. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? Tarissa could
be his.

Once the Halcus
captain was done away with, he would be able to do whatever he wanted. He could
move to Annis or Highwall and get a job as a baker. With the money from that
and a little scribing on the side, it wouldn't be long before he could send for
Tarissa and Magra.

As Jack was busy
planning, there was a small part of his mind that stayed detached. It warned
him that he was working to fill the void that had been created last night. So
what if he was? Fate had set him free, and what he did with his life now was no
one's concern but his own.

"No, Bodger,
the way to tell if a man has the staying power of a stallion isn't by seeing if
he eats his greens."

"But Longtoad
says the more greens a man eats, the better able he is to satisfy the
wenches."

"There ain't
no way that a man with the figure of a spring onion is going to be able to
satisfy the wenches more than once in a bedding. No, Bodger. Take it from me,
the true sign of staying power is nasal hair."

"Nasal hair,
Grift?"

"Nasal hair,
Bodger. The more hair that dangles down from a man's snifter, the better able
he is to wear out the wenches. Take Master Frallit-he has more hair up one of
his nostrils than the entire royal guard has under their armpits, and you'll
never meet a man whose loaf rises quicker after the first kneading."

"I see you
have quite a head growing up there yourself, Grift."

"Thank you,
Bodger. You wouldn't do too bad yourself if you stopped trimming them."

"But I've
never trimmed my nasal hair, Grift."

"Ah, well,
your best hope then is to concentrate on quality rather than quantity."

Bodger quickly hid
his shortcomings by taking a deep draught of ale. "Do you think we'll get
into trouble for being in the chapel last night, Grift?"

"I don't
think so, Bodger. The chaplain set us to guard the door. He can hardly complain
if we nipped inside for a quick toddle of holy spirits."

"We did clean
the floor as well, Grift."

"Aye, you did
a fine job with those tiles, Bodger."

"When will
the normal guards take over the watch, Grift?"

"We are the
normal guards now, Bodger. The chaplain said we've got the job as long as we
keep quiet about him being drunk as a pheasant every night before six."

"He did tell
us to keep out of the chapel, though."

"Bodger, if
you think I'm going to be spending every night hunkering down in a doorway,
when I could be kipping in a pew, then you're sadly mistaken."

"What d'you
think those two were up to last night, Grift?"

"It wasn't
midnight mass, that's for sure, Bodger. If you ask me, I think there's some
kind of passageway from the chapel that leads somewhere high and mighty. That
girl was too noble to be dallying with the shifty-looking chap who escorted
her. She was obviously destined to keep company with a lord."

"Did you
notice anything familiar about her, Grift?"

"Like what,
Bodger?"

"Well, I
don't know about you, but to me she looked the spitting image of Maybor's
daughter, the Lady Melliandra."

"One day
soon, Bodger, I'm going to have to give you my theory on men with bad eyesight.
The girl looked nothing like her; you must have had a little too much of the
chaplain's extra-strong brandy."

"I suppose
you're right, Grift. Anyway, what about men with bad eyesight?"

"Aah, well,
Bodger, men with bad eyesight are notorious for..."

"Master,
there is a lady to see you," said Crope.

Layers of pain
peeled away and left raw and stinging flesh beneath. Each breath was a victory,
each thought was a blade in his heart. He had taken the blow full on his chest.
It had hit him like a flight of blazing arrows, searing through skin and muscle
and precious tissue. The burning was intolerable. Even now, with perceptions
dulled by precious drugs, he could feel it trying to claim his flesh for its
own.

Oh, but it was
worth it. He would not change a thing. The lady who waited to see him would be
the most important woman in all of history and her life had to be saved at all
cost. If Catherine of Bren had died last night, his plans would have faded to
dust.

Such a foolish,
arrogant girl to think that she could draw sorcery as easily as she exerted her
will. A child playing with fire. Even now she probably had no idea of the risk
she had taken. The backlash was devastating; it bore no relation to the initial
drawing. It had been honed and focused like the edge of a blade. Going in, it
had been a cheap trick, a mischiefmaking ripple, nothing more. Yet the
golden-haired knight had altered its nature. By fighting the drawing, his body
acted like a prism, condensing the power to a fine point. Coming out it was a
deadly force. And Catherine of Bren, who was destined to be queen of the Four
Kingdoms, had been its target.