A Man Betrayed Read online

  "Mm." The captain appeared to make a decision. "Very well. For now we'll head back to the village. We'll mount a proper search for the boy once the storm gives."

  "Why the rush, Captain?" said the second. "Why not finish your business here?" He looked pointedly at Melli. "And then maybe you'll be generous enough to share your fortune."

  "No one will touch the girl. Understand, no one." The captain eyed the puzzled face of his second. "She is a virgin, Jared."

  The second nodded with comprehension. "A mighty fine-looking one, at that."

  "She's been court trained, too."

  The second whistled. "Quite a prize."

  The captain turned his attention back to Melli. "Can I trust you to ride on your own, or will I have to bind you like a thief?"

  The exchange between the two men had filled Melli with apprehension. The combination of worry and punches made her feel sick. She was determined to show neither fear nor pain. "I will ride alone," she said.

  THREE

  "I tell you, Grift, being at the back is the worst thing. All we do all day is walk through piles of horse dung."

  "Aye, Bodger. I know what you mean, but horse dung has its uses."

  "What uses are those, Grift?"

  "It can stop a woman from getting with child, Bodger."

  "How does it work, Grift? Does it stop your seed from hitting the mark?"

  "No, Bodger. Once it's up there, it smells so bad that it puts a man right off." Grift chuckled merrily. "Ain't nothing like not doing it for ensuring you won't become an unwilling father."

  Bodger tried out his new skeptical look: raising his left eyebrow, while keeping his right one level.

  "What's the matter, Bodger? You look like you're in the throes of painful indigestion."

  Bodger quickly changed to an expression he was more comfortable with. "Mighty queer thing-Maybor's horse dropping dead the other day."

  "Aye, but that wasn't the strangest thing to happen that morning, Bodger. Did you notice the way that Baralis near fell off his horse right about the time that Maybor's stallion hit the deck?"

  "Aye. I saw that hooded giant Crope lift him right up and lay him on the ground. It was just as well that the captain decided to make camp then and there, for Lord Baralis was one man who wasn't fit for a full day's ride."

  The attention of both men was diverted by the sound of swift horses approaching from behind.

  "It's the two rear watches, Grift. Looks like they're bringing someone in."

  "Damn! I hope it's not trouble with the Halcus."

  "No, Grift. The third man's no Halcus." Bodger twisted in his saddle to get a better look at the approaching riders. "He's royal guard."

  "Are you sure, Bodger?"

  "Blue and gold under his cloak, Grift."

  "I tell you, Bodger, if a lone member of the guard has been sent to catch up with us, it means trouble."

  "What sort of trouble, Grift?"

  "The worst sort, Bodger."

  The two men fell into silence as the three riders passed them. The face of the newcomer was grim and unreadable in the thin light of morning. Grift saw a black cloaked man break off from the column and make his way to the fore, where the riders were headed. "I see Lord Baralis is anxious to be let in on the news, Bodger," he murmured.

  The column, abuzz with the arrival of the messenger, slowed to a halt. Grift looked on as the riders approached the front, where Maybor and his captains rode. The riders came to a halt. The messenger saluted. Words were spoken. Lord Baralis approached, and he and Lord Maybor were drawn aside by the messenger. Grift had a clear view of all three men, but could not hear what words were exchanged. Both lords looked tense and drawn. After hearing the man speak, Maybor nodded. The messenger drew closer to the column. In a loud and ringing voice, he proclaimed:

  "The king is dead. Long live the king. Long live Kylock."

  Jack was handed a chicken leg. "Eat," commanded the red-haired man, who he now knew to be called Rovas.

  Jack had just awakened to find himself in a small threeroomed cottage. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and there were pots on the boil. From the light stealing in through the cracks in the shutters, Jack could tell it was midmorning. The collar of his tunic was rubbing against the cut on his neck, and his head was splitting with pain.

  He looked at the leg of chicken. It seemed a strange breakfast, but he knew little of the ways of the Halcus. Most people in the kingdoms thought the . Halcus were foul mouthed barbarians. He took a bite of the chicken: it was tender and sharply spiced.

  "Good, eh?" prompted Rovas, who was salting his own portion with an admirable lack of restraint. Salt was obviously not as expensive here as it was in the kingdoms. The red-haired man noticed Jack's gaze. "Not much salt in the kingdoms these days, eh?" he said. "What with those damned knights of Valdis controlling the supply, and then the war. . ." He shook his head. "There's not enough salt around to keep a powderer in business."

  Jack, noting a certain smugness to the man's words, said, "You appear to be faring well."

  "Isn't that always the way, though? A war means different things to different people. Take me: never had so much salt on my table since the war began. It's one of the perks. Here." Rovas pushed the salt bowl toward Jack. "By rights you should take some, seeing's this comes from a shipment that was bound for the kingdoms."

  "So you're a thief?"

  The man laughed: a robust and glorious sound. "Yes, you could say that. You could also say I'm a brigand, a bandit, a smuggler, a black-marketeer. Take your pick. I prefer to be called a beneficiary, though."

  "Beneficiary?"

  "Of the war." Rovas smiled, showing large, white teeth. "This war is one big wheat field ripe for the harvest. It would be a shame to let all the grain go rotten on the stalk, so I farm off the excess."

  Jack knew self-serving rhetoric when he heard it. "Stealing other people's grain is the work of a weasel, not a farmer."

  Rovas laughed again. "A weasel, eh? Just one more name to add to my list."

  The red-haired man settled back to enjoy his breakfast. Despite his good humor, Jack could detect a certain nervousness in his bearing. His eyes kept flicking to the door as if he were expecting somebody. And, indeed, a few minutes later the door opened. A woman walked in. She was mature in years, but tall and finely featured. Disappointment flashed across Rovas' face.

  "Have you seen any sign of her?" he asked the woman. "No." They exchanged a tense look. The woman's face held accusation. Her hand twisted the fabric .of her dress.

  "I shouldn't have left her there," Rovas said.

  "Doing things you should not is quite a habit with you," retorted the woman.

  Jack tried to grasp what was familiar in the woman's voice. She didn't sound like Rovas, she sounded more like ... Melli! That was it. She had the same kind of voice as the women at court. An accent like his own, but with the clipped and modulated tones of a noblewoman. He wondered how a woman of the kingdoms had come to live in the lap of the enemy.

  "I begged her to ride at my back." said Rovas, "but she insisted I go alone."

  "It was a close call?"

  "Not so close that my horse couldn't have borne two." The woman's knuckles were white as she grasped her skirts. "How many were there?"

  "A score turned up at the coop. Six came after me and the boy." Rovas had apparently lost his appetite; he dropped the half-eaten chicken leg on the platter. "The last I saw of her, she was hiding in the gorse. It was freezing out there, Magra. If the soldiers didn't find her, the frost certainly did." He stood up and made his way to the fire.

  "Do you think she will do anything foolish?" The woman looked quickly toward Jack.

  Rovas' eyes followed her gaze. "I hope not. Someone else can do the job now."

  Jack saw the look the two exchanged: it was loaded with silent messages. A conspirator's glance. He was beginning to feel wary. He wanted to be back with Melli again, to be on his way.

  The woman called Magra
poured herself a cup of steaming holk. She warmed her hands on its curves. Turning toward Jack, she said, "So this is the murderer?"

  She looked at him closely, even to the point of drawing a candle nearer. Jack felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but made a point of meeting her gaze. After a moment she spoke up. "You have a look about you, boy, that is familiar to me."

  Jack dreaded the coming question. In his experience remarks like that always led to inquiries about a person's family. He had no intention of sharing the shame of his parentage with the aloof and self-possessed woman standing next to him. He was saved the task of evasion by Rovas. "Come, Magra," he said. "Sit down. You won't make your daughter come any faster by bothering the boy."

  The woman gave him one final look. Despite the coldness of her eyes, Jack found himself feeling sorry for her. She was worried about her daughter, and he was merely providing a distraction. Sighing heavily, the woman lost a measure of her rigid poise; instantly appearing older and smaller. Drawing close to the fire, she sat upon a three-legged stool. Rovas crossed over to her and laid his huge hand upon her shoulder. Magra drew away from the touch, and Rovas was left standing awkwardly with his arm held out. He turned and rested his weight against the fireplace. As he did so, the woman's hand flitted up for an instant in a tiny gesture of reconciliation that went unseen. The two stayed that way for some time, the candle burning down a notch, the fire blazing on.

  The door latch broke the spell. It rattled, then lifted, and a girl stepped into the room. No, once in the light, she was more than a girl. She was a woman. Jack looked on as Rovas and Magra rushed over to her. Rovas reached her first, his arms reaching out to envelop her in a bear hug. She was so slight, easily mistakable for a young girl, but Jack saw that she was older than he, probably by three or four years. She turned to her mother. There was a formality between the two women that was absent between her and Rovas. Still, there was a moistness to the mother's eyes. "I have been too long at the fire," she said when her daughter noticed.

  "So," said Rovas, beaming brightly. "What kept you?" All three broke into an uneasy laugh. To Jack, it was as if he were not in the room. He felt as if he was intruding; these were not his friends, these were not his joys to share. If anything, the arrival of the girl had made him angry. They were all right. The girl had made it back safely, their lives were unchanged. What about Melli?

  "So, you see," the girl was saying, "I had to wait it out overnight, or the guard set to watch the chicken coop might have spotted me."

  The girl had been within sight of the chicken coop! Things were beginning to fall into place: Rovas had brought him here on her horse, so she had been forced to hide from the soldiers, and then make it back on foot. Questions jumped to Jack's lips. Why had they taken him? Why had they acted against their own countrymen? And what did they want with him? More important than all that was the fact that the girl who just walked in had spent the night near the chicken coop.

  "What happened to the girl in the coop?" he demanded, surprised at the venom in his voice.

  All three turned to look at him. Jack caught the quick exchange of glances between Rovas and the girl-a warning given and received.

  "She is dead," said the girl. "The captain ordered her to be clubbed to death, as befits an accomplice to murder."

  Melliandra. His daughter would have been queen this day. What a fool she had been to run away. What a fool he had been to let her get away. She was a jewel, cut for royalty, polished for power, a fitting adornment for a king. He had not seen her in so long; how he missed her quick wit and sparkling eyes.

  Feeling old and saddened, Maybor drew his cloak close. The snow had turned to sleet and was driving into his face. He was waiting for the tents to be erected. The tidings that the messenger brought were of such import that it was decided to set up camp then and there, and travel no more this day. This arrangement suited Maybor nicely; not only did he want to question the messenger further about the circumstances leading to the king's death, but also, since the fall from his horse and his subsequent painful landing in a thorn bush, riding had become rather painful. He was quite sure the physician hadn't pulled out all the thorns from his backside. It would be just like their kind. If they couldn't kill you outright with their cures, they always had other ways to make you suffer.

  As for his horse dropping dead under him, well, just wait till he returned to Harvell. The horse dealer who'd sold him the stallion would find himself in line for a flogging if he didn't return the two hundred golds. Maybor grunted, sending whitened breath into the air. He would see to it that the dealer was flogged even after the money was returned; someone had to pay for his humiliation.

  Maybor glanced toward Baralis. The black-cloaked lord was hovering like a vulture. It was obvious that he wanted to be the first to question the messenger. He probably supposed that as king's chancellor he had that right, but he, Maybor, was head of this party and he would decide the rules.

  The steward came forward and informed him his tent was ready. Maybor instructed the man to fetch the messenger as soon as he was refreshed and out of his riding clothes.

  "But, sir," said the steward, "Lord Baralis has requested his presence first."

  Maybor pulled a gold coin from his doublet and pressed it into the soft flesh of the man's palm. "Here. See to it that the messenger comes to me first." The steward nodded and dashed off. Loyalty was one means of ensuring one's orders were carried out. Gold was another.

  He stepped into his tent and set about stripping off his outer clothes. Just as he was struggling with the awkward back fastenings of his tunic, Baralis entered.

  "Should I call a servant to help you?" he said, moving forward, his lips parting to show a rare glimpse of tooth. "I can see you're having trouble with those laces. I must say, I find it quite admirable the way you endure being laced into a garment like a girl." Baralis crossed over to the low table that had been set with food and drink, and poured himself a glass of wine.

  Maybor was furious, but he had enough presence of mind to realize that he would look quite ridiculous getting angry while only half-dressed. He settled for an indignant snort and hurriedly donned one of his fur-lined robes.

  In the wake of restored dignity came anger. "What in Borc's name are you doing here?" he demanded. "Leave my tent this instant."

  "Or else?" Baralis didn't bother to look up. He was intent upon choosing a piece of dried fruit.

  Maybor hated the cool arrogance of the man. "Come, now, Baralis. Is your memory so short that you can't recall how handy I am with a sword?"

  "My memory is faultless, Maybor. However I don't perceive an old man with a sword to be much of a threat."

  Old man! Maybor was prevented from issuing a scathing reply by the arrival of the messenger. The young man had changed his clothes and shaven his beard.

  "I am pleased to find you both here," he said tactfully. "Yes, it was good of Lord Maybor to offer his tent for this meeting," said Baralis. "Would you care for some refreshment?"

  Maybor did not like this one bit. Baralis was acting like a benevolent host, and by doing so was giving the messenger the idea that he was in charge. Maybor decided to play the king's chancellor at his own game.

  "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. H
e 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.