A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "Over here, dearie. Special rate for first-timers."

  "Give me a chance, little one, and I'll show you where everything goes."

  He smiled politely at the offers, but shook his head, just like Swift had taught him. Not that Swift himself ever shook his head at a prostitute. After all, he'd say, what else was a man's contingency for?

  Some of the calls were less flattering.

  "Bugger off, you little snot! You're scaring the punters."

  "Stop gawking, peep-boy! If you can't pay, don't look."

  "I don't give lessons, baby-face. Come back when you've filled out your britches."

  Nabber was immune to this sort of heckling. The prostitutes in Rorn had far sharper tongues.

  He hung back a little from Tawl, keeping his distance. For some reason, which he could not name, he didn't want to make contact with the knight just yet. Eventually the pair slowed down and entered a brightly lit building. The redpainted shutters confirmed it was another brothel.

  Nabber slipped down the side of the building. He waded through the filth of kitchen refuse and emptied chamberpots until he found what he was looking for: a way to see inside.

  The shutter was closed to keep out the cold and the smell, but the wood was badly warped. There was a convenient split running down its length. Nabber put his eye to the wood.

  Smoke filled the room. Candles burned low and the fire was well banked with ashes. Groups of men and women lounged on chairs and benches. Food, fried but now cold, congealed unnoticed on platters. There was fondling and drinking, both men and women showing more enthusiasm for the latter. The women's dresses were unlaced and their bosoms, both small and large, went mostly unnoticed.

  Nabber looked on as Tawl and his ladyfriend entered the room. She pushed a path through the drunkenness and cleared a bench for them to sit on. Tawl immediately called for ale, his voice harsher than Nabber remembered. Ale came and food along with it. The knight ignored the food and drank the ale from the jug. The girl whispered something to him, perhaps a caution for his drinking, and Tawl smacked her in the chest. Nabber was shocked.

  The girl appeared quite used to this sort of treatment and didn't make a move to leave. She took a portion of fried chicken and set about tearing at it with large but even teeth.

  Nabber saw her exchange a seemingly casual glance with a small-eyed woman. The woman edged nearer, and the girl slipped her the sack. Tawl was drinking heavily and saw none of this.

  The small-eyed woman left the room and returned a few moments later. Tawl's sack was still in her hand, but it looked slimmer now. She crossed the room, paused a second in front of the minor to pat her heavily powdered hair, and then returned the sack to the girl. Although Nabber had no way of knowing, he was almost certain that the bundle now contained substantially less of Tawl's gold. Indignation rose in his breast. Robbing was normally fair game to him, but this was downright deceitful. The girl with the bright yellow hair had set Tawl up. And it probably wasn't the first time.

  But it would be the last. No one robbed a friend of his and got away with it. No one.

  Nabber looked toward Tawl. The knight's head was down. He seemed absorbed in something. It took Nabber a moment to realize that he was intent upon his arm. He was rewinding the cloth that bound his forearm. The cloth that served to hide his circles. With movements made slow by drink, Tawl wound the cloth, his fingers binding the fabric deep into his flesh. The bandage slipped and Nabber was shocked by what lay underneath: a portion of flesh as big as a fist was burned. The flesh was raised and blistered. The scar which ran through his circles had reopened and formed a ribbon of red through the black.

  Tawl began to rewind the cloth. He wasn't a man concerned with bandaging an injury, he was a man intent on hiding his shame. By covering his circles it was as if Tawl were trying to hide the past, to bandage it out of sight.

  Nabber moved away from the window. He felt a confusion of unfamiliar emotions. There was a pressure in his throat and an aching in his chest. The sight of Tawl, sitting alone in the sordid whorehouse quietly binding his circles, was too painful to bear. He turned his back on the window and made his way to the street. Time to get a little sleep. He would return in the morning when the knight was sober.

  He walked back up the road, past the brothels and their prostitutes. If they called to him, this time he didn't hear them.

  Melli, who usually prided herself on a healthy appetite and had not eaten for at least half a day, found the food held no interest for her.

  Fiscel and Alysha had been the perfect hosts, solicitous and polite. Her plate was never empty, her glass always full. Melli hadn't actually tested how quickly they brought more food, but when it came to refilling her glass, they showed the speed and intent of swooping kestrels.

  Thinking of birds of prey, Melli noticed that Fiscel had the eye of a predator. His gaze was sharp, focused, cold as metal. That was his good eye, of course. His bad eye had the look of the prey. Melli giggled merrily and wondered why she only had such witty thoughts when she'd been drinking. A small, detached part of her argued that perhaps she did have such thoughts when sober, only they didn't seem so amusing to a sound mind and a dry belly.

  She most definitely had a wet belly now. Wet Belly Melli! She laughed brightly and Fiscel laughed, too. The flesh-trader looked so repulsive when he laughed that the sight of him made Melli laugh more. The raven-haired Alysha just smiled, a smile soft with all the guile and complicity that women of the Far South were famous for.

  Fiscel refilled her cup. The brimming glass was unsteady in her hand and wine spilled on the rush-covered floor. Melli bent forward to see how much wine was lost. As her head came up, she caught a glance and a nod exchanged between her hosts. Alysha moved toward the foot of the bed. Strangely, amidst all her feelings of drunken glee and growing trepidation, Melli found herself envying the older woman. She moved like a temptress. The beauty that was denied in her face flourished in the ravishing but effortless grace of her movements. Melli felt like a country bumpkin in her presence.

  With arms so fluid as to seem almost without bone, Alysha reached for the embroidered sack. A pull on the thread revealed its contents: rope, coiled like a snake. Something glinted in the center of the coil.

  Melli tried to focus upon the shiny object, but her eyes refused to do her bidding.

  Fiscel settled back in his comfortable chair. He had the satisfied look of a connoisseur about to enjoy a feast. Wet Belly Melli was beginning to feel like Melli On a Spit.

  The bright flash of metal drew her eye and turned her stomach. Alysha drew a blade from her belt. Its haft was encrusted with pearls. The dark-haired woman knelt before the rope and began to cut its length. She was adept with a blade and even managed to endow the business of rope cutting with a certain capable elegance.

  When she'd finished there were four lengths of rope. Up came the beautiful neck, revealing a half smile on the unlovely face. "Come," she beckoned, the first word she'd spoken in Melli's presence. "Come and join me. I will promise not to hurt you." A voice to match her movements, not her face. A beautiful, husky voice that hinted of things exotic and forbidden.

  Melli was suddenly afraid. She looked to the door and saw that Fiscel caught the action. His good hand lay resting upon his walking stick. The end of the stick was formed by a large swelling of wood a fist thick. Melli understood the threat even before the flesh-trader's fingers enclosed the weighted end. She looked back to Alysha, who was sitting patiently on the bed. The dark-haired woman raised a hand of invitation. She was playing the game as if Melli had free will. Melli knew there was no choice; the invitation nothing but an order in disguise.

  As if reading her thoughts, the woman said, "Come willingly to me now and I will be gentle. Refuse and I may have to hurt you." There was bone to the flesh after all, and tough meat beneath.

  Drinking all that almond liqueur followed by numerous glasses of cheap wine had been a terrible mistake. Melli was pretty sure that she was in no st
ate to make a run for it, or to put up a fight. There was one option, though.

  She began to scream at the top of her voice. Melli was pleasantly surprised at how loud and jarring a sound came from her lips.

  She didn't see the blow coming. She felt the excruciating impact, heard the thud of wood against her skull. Tears came to her eyes and spittle to her lips. Stumbling forward, she fell into the waiting arms of Alysha. The woman dragged her onto the bed.

  Melli's head was caught in a spiral of pain and heaviness. She was tempted to give in and pass out. Forcing herself to stay conscious, she focused on the pain rather than the heaviness. The back of her head throbbed like a hive. Even in her dull and drunken state she realized the blow had been placed with care; a knock on the back of the head would leave no noticeable scars or bruises. Her hair would cover the consequences. Fiscel was obviously a man who treated his merchandise with due consideration. Melli felt a certain spiteful delight in the fact that she was already marked goods. Six welts on her back would bring her desirabilityand very probably her price-right down.

  Alysha bent over her and began to spread her arms. Melli could do nothing; it was taking all her concentration just keeping the room in focus. The raven-haired woman drew her arm out to the side and then above her head. She reached over for the length of rope and tied Melli's wrist to the bedpost. The rope was soft against her wrist, its touch nearly a caress. Alysha pulled hard on the silken rope and the caress became a vise. Fear and bile bubbled within Melli's stomach. She felt the mix burn in her throat. Once both arms were secure, Alysha's cool touch fell upon Melli's leg, drawing it out and to the side. The rope found one ankle and then the other.

  Melli was spread-eagled on the bed. She raised her head, an achievement in itself considering it weighed twice as much as normal. Fiscel was back on his well-cushioned chair, and Alysha stood above her, knife in hand.

  The dark-haired woman wielded the blade like a professional. One moment its tip rested against Melli's bodice, the next it was slicing a path down her dress.

  The knife! Melli felt it fall from her skin along with the fabric. She waited, breath in body, for its discovery. A few seconds passed, and she risked raising her head once more. Alysha was sitting cross-legged on the floor; it looked as if she was polishing something. Melli glanced down at her dress. The fabric of her bodice lay unfurled on both sides like opened petals. Most of the knife was concealed under the dress, but the edge of the hilt could be seen jutting from the folds. Melli shifted her body slightly, and fabric and knife fell toward her. Next, she raised her back and shoulders, and the knife slipped down toward her waist. When she lay flat once more, the knife was hidden beneath her.

  She was allowed no time to enjoy her triumph. Alysha came and sat by the foot of the bed, between her legs. In her hand she was holding what looked to Melli to be a smooth piece of glass. Melli felt her undergarments fall away from her skin. She flushed with shame.

  "Such a pretty body," said Alysha. "Not as skinny as I thought. You would render a fair amount of fat."

  Melli raised her head as Alysha lowered hers. The woman was kneeling between her legs and looking at her most private parts. Melli could not bear the indignity and shifted angrily against the ropes. She felt her knife slide against her back, and then the sting of the blade as it cut into her skin. Terrified she might do more damage to herself, she lay as still as the dead.

  Alysha murmured words of calming in her soft, faraway voice. Melli felt something smooth and cool press gently against her sex. She saw the woman's lips move as if in prayer. What was spoken had more weight than words. The air from Alysha's mouth reached out toward. her, probing. Melli became afraid. She'd heard many tales of sorcery, even seen it once herself, but this-so much less powerful than Jack's drawing-seemed an unbearable intrusion. She shifted against the ropes, suddenly not caring if her knife was revealed. Magic was inside of her; its presence warming as it searched. Every fiber of her soul fought against it. Every cell of her body felt violated.

  Alysha mouthed a few words and the force withdrew, becoming air once more upon her tongue. "The hymen is intact," she said. "The girl is still a virgin." As she stood up, her legs faltered and she was forced to steady herself against the wall.

  "Are you sure?" asked Fiscel.

  "Of course I am," Alysha snapped. "The girl has a hymen as tough as old leather. She will need quite a breaking."

  "There will be plenty of blood?"

  "More than usual."

  "Good. She will fetch a high price." Fiscel's smile was warm with anticipation. "My southern beauty never lets me down. You have so many talents, my dear, I don't know what I'd do without you." He poured a glass of nais and handed it to the woman. "Why, your hand is shaking, Alysha. What is the matter?"

  Alysha looked quickly toward Melli. "There is something about that girl, Fiscel," she whispered.

  Melli was trying very hard not to fall asleep, but she felt so weak. Her eyes had stopped focusing and her thoughts had followed suit. Slowly, despite all her efforts, her eyelids began to close.

  "What do you mean, my precious?" asked Fiscel.

  "Her fate is strong. It fought against the sorcery, nearly forcing it back upon me before I was ready. And her womb. . ." Alysha shook her head.

  "Her womb waits for a child who will bring both war and peace."

  Traff spat out the wad of snatch. It was not a good blend, too bitter by far. He spat a few more times for good measure. A man needs a clean mouth.

  He watched the shadowed cottage. The lights had gone out some time ago. The old woman would be fast asleep by now. Still, he would wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure. Surprise was as good a weapon as the keenest knife.

  He passed the time by grinding the chewed snatch into the snow with the heel of his boot. Perhaps he might give up snatch all together. He'd heard that it rotted the teeth. In the past he wouldn't have cared one way or another about rotted teeth. Bad breath and toothache were for women and priests to fret over. But now he had other things to consider-his pretty young bride-to-be for instance.

  Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord Maybor and once betrothed to King Kylock, was to be his. Her father had sold her to him, along with two hundred pieces of gold. The great lord had struck a lame deal. He, Traff, had given away a little information, nothing more. Lord Maybor, however, had given away his only daughter. The old fool was in his dotage. So desperate had he been to hear about Baralis' scheming that he'd lost his powers of judgment. And as a result, the delicious Melli was his.

  All he had to do now was to find her.

  That was what brought him here tonight, to a small cottage set back from Harvell's eastern road. A cottage that was owned by an old woman who was a pig farmer.

  The old crow deserved a beating just for the fact that she'd not turned her farm over to the authorities like she was supposed to. An old widow woman had no business running a farm, depriving a man of making a legitimate livelihood. She would be hanged if the word got out-and make no mistake, the word would get out-only by then she might be too stiff for a hanging.

  Traff stepped out from his hiding place in the bushes and made his way toward the cottage. His blade was tucked in his belt and pressed against his thigh like a second man hood. He drew the knife from its resting place and his body mourned the loss. It was a fine knife, long and thin-bladed. A knife for fighting, or for killing.

  He approached the cottage from behind, slipping between the barn and the sty. The smell of pigs filled his nostrils, and Traff found himself wishing he still had a mouthful of snatch, bad or otherwise. The pigs caught his scent and grunted nervously.

  He fell under the shadow of the cottage and made for the door. Pushing it gently, he tested its strength: good hinges and a firm bolt. He moved away. Moving toward the front of the building, he tried every window shutter until he found one with rusted hinges. Breaking in was going to be noisy. Traff shrugged. The woman was old and probably deaf. He shouldered into the shutter with al
l his strength. The hinges cracked like kindling. The shutter fell into the cottage, taking the linen curtain with it. It crashed against the floor. Wincing at the noise, Traff climbed into the cottage.

  Borc, but it was dark! He stood for a moment allowing his eyes to grow used to the blackness. He was in the kitchen. On the far side lay the door to the bedchamber. He adjusted his grip on the knife and then made his way across the room. The door was not bolted and swung back to his touch. In the darkness he could make out a white figure on the bed. It took him a moment to realize that the old woman was sitting up and that she had a knife in her hand.

  "Don't come any closer," she said. "I bought this knife last week, and I've a hankering to test the blade."

  Traff laughed. It really, was quite absurd. Did the old crow have no idea just how ridiculous she sounded? The woman made a quick movement and then he felt something tear into his shoulder. The bitch had thrown the knife! Anger flared within Traff. He crossed the room in one leap. Grabbing the woman by her scrawny neck, he pressed his thumb into her throat. The feel of old flesh repulsed him. Blood sprinkled onto the covers and the floor. His blood.

  "Not so brave now, old hag." Traff pushed his thumb against her windpipe. With his other hand he performed a showy maneuver with his knife, making sure the blade caught what little light was in the room. The woman's eyes glittered in unison with the blade. Traff was beginning to feel more relaxed now that he was back in charge. The wound on his shoulder didn't feel too deep. He had been wearing his leathers and they would have taken some of the bite from the knife.

  "Now then, all I want you to do is answer a few questions for me. You'll be all right as long as you tell me the truth." Traff's tone was that of a parent admonishing a naughty child. "I've been talking to a friend of yours. He told me that you had two visitors stay here about five weeks back. Is this true?" Traff eased his grip on the woman's throat to give her a chance to confirm what he was saying. The woman didn't as much as blink an eye. Traff jabbed the haft of his blade into her chest. The woman coughed and spluttered. "I'll take that as a yes," he said.