A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  The knight was still nowhere in sight. Nabber's eyes followed the sack. As always, his hands were ahead of his brain. The straw-haired woman was distracted for only an instant as she raised her cup in toast, but it was enough. Nabber slid the sack from the table. With fingers that never faltered for an instant, he bundled it into his cloak. Now was not the time to revel in the thrill of the snatch, so he bowed his head low and made for the door.

  A second later the cry went up: "My gold! Someone's stole my gold!"

  Nabber had to stop himself from shouting ogut that it wasn't her gold at all. He kept calm. He could see the door. Only a few steps and he'd be gone. There was some disturbance in the crowd behind him. He couldn't afford to look back. He pushed the last of the people out of the way and made it to the doorway. Still not sure if he'd been fingered, he began to saunter slowly down the street. He was just about to break out into a nonchalant whistle when he heard the telltale sign of footsteps behind him. Nabber quickly abandoned all attempts to appear blameless and started to run as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Swift, while being a thief of great sophistication, had known of the occasional need for a quick escape. Nabber followed his instructions: "Never run in a straight line. Take every turn that crosses your path, always head to where the crowd is at its thickest ... and move like the wind. " Down streets and alleys he fled, through markets and gatherings he charged. The footsteps still followed. He dived into an alleyway, good and dark, and ran up its length. It ended in a stone wall. Nabber drew a deep breath. It was too tall to scale; he'd just have to blaze a path backward. Quickly he scanned his brain for any words of wisdom that Swift might have imparted on this particular predicament. He came up blank. Nabber was forced to conclude that Swift would never have been stupid enough to run up a blind alleyway.

  Knees trembling from fatigue more than fright, Nabber turned to face his pursuer. The man was silhouetted against the light. He moved forward and the sunlight shone on his hair. Golden hair. It was Tawl,

  A long moment passed. The sun retreated with the tact of a diplomat, leaving man and boy alone. A low wind gusted down the alleyway. It toyed with the filth, picking up more smell than substance.

  Tawl stood and looked at Nabber, his great chest heaving, his hair the color of dark gold. There was no expression to be read on his face. Without a word he began to move away.

  To Nabber's amazement the knight turned and started to retrace his steps down the alleyway. Tawl's pace was slow and his head was bowed. Nabber couldn't bear it an instant longer. "Tawl!" he cried. "Wait." He saw the knight hesitate for the briefest instant, and then, without turning round, he shook his head. At the sight of this small, almost negligent gesture, Nabber felt his throat grow tight. Tawl was walking away from him.

  Swift had warned him many times about the dangers of friendship: "Never let a man get close enough to rob your purse, " he would say. Having no friends himself, merely accomplices, Swift was a person who put little value on friendship. Up until the time he'd met Tawl, Nabber had been inclined to agree with him. But Swift wasn't always right. Yes, he could turn a phrase more smoothly than a milkmaid churning butter, yet for all his cleverness he could trust no one. And no one trusted him. Suddenly the idea of ending up like Swift-a man who asked you what you wanted before asking your name-didn't seem as enticing to Nabber as it had in the past.

  He ran after Tawl and put a hand on his arm. "Tawl, it's me! Nabber."

  "Get away from me, boy." Tawl's words were as sharp as blades. He pulled his arm free and continued walking. "Here," said Nabber, handing him the sack. "Take your loot back. I only robbed it to stop your ladyfriend from spending it all."

  The knight pushed the sack away. "I don't need you as my keeper. Have it yourself. There's plenty more where that came from."

  "You mean you plan on staying in Bren?"

  "My plans are not your concern, boy." Tawl quickened his pace, but Nabber kept to his side.

  "What about your quest? The boy . . ." Nabber was about to say, "the boy who Bevlin sent you to look for," but stopped himself. Now wasn't a good time to mention the dead wiseman.

  Tawl swung around. "Leave me be!"

  There was such venom in the knight's words that Nabber actually took a step back. He got his first close look at his friend's face. Tawl had aged. Lines that had been mere suggestions a month earlier had deepened and set. Anger blazed across his features, but there was something more in his eyes. It was shame. As if realizing he'd been found out, Tawl lowered his eyes and turned back to his path. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked away.

  Nabber was tempted to give him up; the man wanted no one's help. It was getting late and the idea of a hot supper at a fine tavern was most appealing. He watched Tawl reach the end of the passageway and turn onto the street. Just before he passed out of sight, Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. It was a simple movement, one Nabber had seen him do a hundred times before. The familiarity of the action made Nabber realize how well he'd come to know Tawl. The knight was his only friend, and they were both a long way from home. Supper began to seem less important.

  He hurried after Tawl. It had been a mistake to approach him in such a forthright manner, asking about the quest, telling him he was being cheated of his money. If he was ever to get the knight back to his old self, he'd have to try a more subtle technique. Tawl obviously wanted to forget the past, forget the wiseman, forget the search for the boy, forget even himself. Well, he'd make sure that Tawl wasn't allowed to forget. The one thing that he was sure of was the fact that the knight had lived to find the boy. It had been his sole purpose, and for him to give up on it so completely struck Nabber as being unspeakably tragic.

  For tonight, though, it would be best if he just kept watch on him. He'd bide his time and wait for a suitable opportunity to get back in the knight's good graces.

  Nabber stepped onto the street. He paused a minute to buy a pastry from a street trader-missing out on a hot supper was one thing, but going without anything to eat at all was quite another-and then struck a path back toward the Duke's Fancy.

  SEVEN

  "Of course, Bodger, there's really only one way to tell if a woman's a virgin."

  "You mean apart from them having straight hair, Grift?"

  "That one's an old wives' tale, Bodger."

  "I've got to agree with you there, Grift. Ever since you've been wearing those extra-tight hose, you could easily be mistaken for an old wife."

  "Hmm, I wear them strictly for therapeutical reasons, Bodger. With vitals as delicate as mine, the first gust of wind sends them north, and once they're there, it's murder to get them back."

  "Aye, Grift, you're famous for your temperamental vitals."

  "Do you want me to impart my worldly wisdom or not, Bodger? Other men would pay good money to be taught by a master such as myself."

  "Go on, then. What's the real way to tell if a woman's a virgin?"

  "You have to put her in a room with a badger, Bodger."

  "A badger?"

  "Aye, Bodger, a badger." Grift sat back on his mule and made himself as comfortable as a man on a mule can be. "You take the badger, Bodger, lock it in a room with the girl you're testing. You leave them alone for a couple of hours, and then go and see what's happened."

  "What's supposed to happen, Grift?"

  "Well, Bodger, if the badger falls asleep in the corner, then the girl's been around the haystack, if you know what I mean. But if the badger comes and curls up on her lap, then she's a virgin good and true."

  "What if the badger bites the girl, Grift?"

  "Then the girl will catch the ground pox, and no one will care either way, Bodger."

  Bodger nodded judiciously; Grift had a point there. The two men were at the back of the column, making their way down a wide but steep mountain path. The air was silent and brittle. No birds called, no winds blew.

  "You had a close call yesterday, Bodger."

  "I was lucky to be brought out from u
nder the avalanche, Grift."

  "I don't think luck had much to do with it, Bodger. Lord Baralis makes his own luck." Although Grift was sorely tempted to ask Bodger exactly what had happened at the avalanche site the day before, he knew it was wise not to do so. No one who'd been pulled out from under the snow had talked about it. In fact, no one in the entire party had mentioned the incident. People were pretending it never happened. By the time they reached Bren, it would be gone from everyone's memory. Six men had died.

  Hearing a noise behind him, Grift looked around. "Here, Bodger, Crope's finally caught up with us. That's him joining the rear now."

  "Aye, Grift. He'd be hard to mistake down a deep tunnel. I wonder why he insisted on hanging back at the avalanche site this morning."

  "Let's find out why, Bodger." The two men pulled aside from the column and waited until Baralis' servant was abreast of them.

  "Nasty bruise that, Crope," said Bodger, motioning toward Crope's forehead.

  "Hurts real bad," replied Crope in his low and gentle voice.

  "Is that why you didn't ride with us first thing, then? Because you weren't up to it?"

  Crope shook his head at Grift. "No, I had to go digging."

  "Burying treasure, Crope?" Grift winked at Bodger.

  "No, Grift," Crope said, oblivious to Grift's sarcasm. "I lost my box in the 'lanche. Slipped right out of my pocket, it did. Took me a long time to find it." Crope smiled and patted the square-shaped bulge in his tunic. "It's back where it belongs now."

  "Why, Crope, you amaze me," said Grift. "I don't believe I've ever heard you say so many words in one go. That box must be pretty important to spark such an outpouring of verbal eloquence."

  Crope's face lost its smile. "None of your business, Grift. I wants to be on my own now." With that Crope pulled on his reins to slow his mount, and Bodger and Grift rode ahead.

  "Well, Bodger," said Grift, "if I know Crope, he's probably keeping his old toenail clippings in that mysterious box of his."

  "Aye, Grift. Either that or his nasal hair."

  "He'd need a bigger box for that, Bodger!"

  Bodger nodded his head judiciously. "Still, Crope risked riding through the pass on his own just to save that box."

  "The pass wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, Bodger. We were over it in no time."

  "Aye, Grift. If the weather holds, we'll be in Bren in two days time."

  "It's when we reach Bren that the real drama will begin, Bodger."

  "How so, Grift?"

  "Well, no one in Bren knows yet that Kylock is now king. If you ask me, Bodger, the people there will get mighty jittery when they find that out. Betrothing a girl to a prince is an entirely different matter than betrothing her to a king."

  "I thought it would be more of an honor, Grift."

  "Bren's not a city that likes to be upstaged; it needs to be the dominant force in any alliance. Mark my words, Bodger, there'll be trouble when we reach our destination."

  The sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Night was pushing its suit and the day would soon succumb.

  It was cold in the garden and the snow crackled underfoot like long-dead leaves. The breath of the two men could be seen whitening, crystallizing. When they drew close, which they did from time to time, there was a certain intimacy in the crossing of their breaths.

  Jack was amazed by Rovas' stamina. Although the man was possibly twenty years older than himself, he moved with the speed of a stag and fought with the endurance of an ox.

  Jack was feeling at a distinct disadvantage. They were fighting with long staffs-a weapon that tested a man's strength more than his reflexes. Jack was beginning to realize how very little he knew about combat. Up until this point his only weapon had been a pig-gutting knife, and although it had helped him kill a man, it had been frenzy not skill that had placed the blade.

  The wood came together with a blunt cracking sound. Once again Rovas pushed him back. Jack turned his staff. His opponent was faster and the wood met again. Rovas chuckled. "Waste of a blow, boy. Shouldn't have bothered." With a lightning quick movement he disengaged his staff, took a step back, released his fore-grip, and used the staff as a spear. He slashed at Jack's shoulder. Jack was totally unprepared and went down, his head meeting rocks beneath the snow.

  "You said I had to hold the staff with both hands." Jack got to his feet, brushing the snow from his tunic.

  "Did I?" Rovas was nonchalant. "Well, that just goes to show that you should play by no man's rules except your own." The huge man looked quite alarming; his face was bright red and he was sweating with gusto.

  "So I should trust no one."

  "Just one person: yourself."

  Jack handed Rovas his staff and the two made their way back toward the cottage. It had been an exhausting day. Rovas had woken him at dawn and they'd spent most of the light hours in the garden fighting. The bearded smuggler was a good teacher. He had a vast stock of weapons ranging from the leather-bound clubs favored by the Halcus, to the seemingly dainty-but Jack had learned deadly-thin-bladed swords of Isro. There was not one weapon in his collection that Rovas couldn't use or offer some useful advice on.

  Rovas stopped by the small outbuilding that was attached to the cottage. "Fancy helping me stuff the kidneys?" be asked. "The women can't abide messing around with the intemals."

  Jack tried hard not to look bewildered.

  Rovas laughed heartily and opened the door, pausing to strike up a lantern. The smell of newly butchered meat filled Jack's nostrils. The light gleamed upon the offal. Liver rested in platters pooled with blood. Kidneys waited coyly in baskets, scenting the air with their distinct perfume. "Beautiful, eh?" prompted Rovas.

  Jack was beginning to think that Rovas was slightly mad. How could a marl possibly find such a sight appealing? He nodded his head slightly, in what he hoped was a noncommittal manner.

  Rovas smiled brightly, showing teeth as large as pebbles. "There's loot in this room, boy. There's people around Helch who haven't seen as much as a single sausage all winter. They'll pay good money for a pound or two of prime offal."

  So that was it. Rovas wasn't mad after all, merely greedy. "Where did all this meat come from?" asked Jack. Rovas beckoned him closer, and when he spoke his voice was a theatrical whisper. "From a good friend of mine, name of Lucy."

  Lucy. Jack reeled at the sound of it. His mother's name. Such a common calling. Hundreds of girls in every city in the Known Lands answered to its light, musical sound.

  Strange how he'd gone so long without hearing it spoken. It brought back a yearning for the past, for a time when he'd rest his head against his mother's chest and the world held no secrets, just promises.

  She had worked so hard. Even now he could smell the ash, see its grayish bloom upon her face and touch the bums upon her fingers. She had been an ash maid in the kitchens; raking through the cinders in the morning, banking down the embers at night. The staff was merciless, it was always: "More wind in the bellows, Lucy."

  "Lucy, bring more logs from the pile."

  "Clean the ash from the grate, Lucy, and while you're about it, make it shine."

  Only Lucy wasn't her real name. Jack could never pinpoint the exact moment when he discovered this; it was more a gradual realization.

  From as early as he could remember he spent his days in the kitchen. He tried to be as "quiet as a mouse and as little trouble as a laying hen," for when he got into trouble his mother was punished for him. He'd totter under one of the huge trestle tables, find the rind of an apple, or the scrape from a carrot to chew upon, and settle down to view the goings-on. The kitchen was a place of wonders; cooking smells filled his nostrils, the clang of copper pots and complaints filled his ears, and the sight of food tempted his young eyes.

  He'd spend hours lost in daydreams. The butcher's cleaving knife became Borc's ax, Master Frallit's apron would become the Knights of Valdis' banner, and the stool by the fire where his mother sat became a throne.

  Whe
n his mother grew tired, as she did more and more the year before she took to her bed, Jack would help her with the fires. One time when they both had their backs to the kitchen, scrubbing the burn from the grate, the head cook called out: "Lucy, clean the stove when you've finished there." His mother never looked round. The cook called again, louder. "Lucy! The stove needs a cleaning." Jack had to shake his mother's arm to get her attention.

  From that day on he watched her more closely. There were many times when she failed to respond to her name. Later, before the end, when he was older and she was weaker, Jack challenged her about it. "What are you really called, Mother?" he asked. He'd chosen his time with cruel precision. She was too ill to feign surprise-he felt ashamed of that now.

  She sighed and said, "I will not lie to you, Jack. Lucy is not my given name, it was chosen for me by another later." He tried to get her to say more, pleading at first, and when that failed, shouting. Sick as she was, her strength of will remained firm and her lips remained closed. Rather than lie to him, she had told him nothing instead.

  Rovas, bearing offal, brought Jack back to the present. He was glad of it, there were too many questions in the past. "The trouble with the kidneys, Jack," he said, "is that they're a little ... how should I put it? ... a little light."

  "Light?"

  "Too many to a pound, if you know what I mean." Rovas smiled like a guileful child.

  "So you intend on making them heavier." Jack was beginning to catch the man's meaning.

  Rovas nodded enthusiastically. "You're a bright boy," he said. "Now this is what we do." The smuggler placed a kidney upon an empty platter and then whipped out his knife.

  "One tiny cut, here, just above the tendon." He opened the kidney like a surgeon, and then held the incision open with the knife-point. "Just pass me that jar over there, boy." Rovas indicated a large container on a shelf. "Careful, it's quite a weight."

  Jack swung the jar from the shelf and nearly dropped it. Master Frallit's baking stones were heavy, but at least they were large. "What's in this?" he asked.