A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  The second his bottom landed in the mud, footfalls sounded. Twigs crackled underfoot. The drizzling rain cut visibility down by half. Voices, muffled, distant, filtered through the mist.

  Jack drew in a deep breath and settled lower in the bushes. Slowly, he reached for his sack. "Mistake number four," he whispered to himself: not carrying a knife at his waist. His hand felt for the sharpness of blade. Under pork and flask, resting at the bottom in a porridge of drybread and rainwater, his hand closed around a wooden shaft. He drew it out a finger's breadth at a time, careful not to disturb the surrounding contents.

  The voices drew nearer. Casual talk at first: complaints about the rain and their superior officer. Jack dared not look out from the bush. He wiped the knife against a branch, scraping wet lumps of drybread from the blade. The handle wasn't important.

  He knew the moment the voices died away that his tracks had been found. The guards were playing it shrewdly, not giving him the chance to escape by raising the alarm. Picturing them following the tracks to the bushes, Jack raised himself onto the balls of his feet, still crouching, yet ready to pounce.

  To the right, the bushes began to rustle. Sharp whispers were exchanged. Steel slithered against leather. Jack tensed his muscles.

  "Who goes there?" came a voice, nearer than he had expected.

  Jack sprang up from the bushes. Two guards faced him, swords drawn. For an instant their faces registered fear. A second later they were upon him. The first man sprang forward, whilst the second took the flank.

  Up came his knife, more a probe than an attack. Rovas' advice played like a commentary in Jack's ear: "Never panic. Remember, the other man is always at least as scared as you. " Nothing about two men, thought Jack. Or was there? Divide and separate seemed to fit the bill.

  Stepping forward, his foot brushed against the sack. His mind grasped a possibility. Almost before the idea formed in his head, he had done it. Jack kicked the sack with all his might, sending it flying into the chest of the first man. Not pausing for an instant, he sidestepped to face the second guard. Tiny drops of rain rested atop his oiled mustache.

  Rovas was in Jack's ear. "Do anything to throw your opponent off guard: dance, laugh, cry. Anything. " An earthshattering primal scream sounded, and it took Jack a moment to realize that he, himself, had made the noise.

  Leaping on the second man, Jack brought him to the ground. His knife was embedded in the man's sword arm before he knew it. Blood gurgled onto the mud. The man flailed his sword and tried to knee him in the vitals. Jack sprang up to avoid the knee. Landing straight down again, knife carrying the momentum of his entire body, he stabbed the man in the heart.

  Whip-quick he was on his feet. The entire contents of the sack were strewn over the bushes. Nervous, circling, the first guard kept his distance. "Feign a weakness to encourage a careful man to attack " Blood from the dead guard ran down Jack's side. He stumbled to the left as if injured, righted himself, and then came forward, favoring the opposite side. The gleam of weakness perceived flashed in the guard's eye.

  Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Jack concentrated on watching the line of the guard's body. He was about to attack to the left, he was sure of it. The instant the guard made his move he was ready. The man's sword jabbed straight for the bloodstain. Jack spun toward it, left fist clenched, and punched the hand that held the hilt. How he managed it, he would never know. It was perfect timing and placement. He hit the hand with such force that the man lost his grip on the blade.

  "Never pause to admire your handiwork, no matter how brilliant the move. " Jack lunged forward. The guard ducked, hand scraping in the mud in search of his sword. Thrown off balance for an instant, Jack looked up to see a thin streak of light heading toward him. The guard had thrown the blade. Launching himself into the air, Jack leapt to the side. He felt the graze of metal on his shin bone, and then pain exploded in his chest as he landed, shoulder first, in the mud.

  The guard was on him before he knew it. No longer with sword, he was brandishing a large wet rock. Heaving it high above his head, he made ready to slam it into Jack's face. "When you've been grounded by a foe, always go for his knees. " Jack's leg shot out, he didn't get the knee, but he got the shin. The guard stumbled backward, attempting to regain his footing. Holding the knife in front of him, Jack tried to stand. Just as he gathered momentum, his foot slipped and he was sent hurtling toward the guard. The man's groin was on a level with his knife.

  Jack cringed as the blade went in; he had planned to get him in the chest. The guard screamed and screamed again. Blood welled over his thighs, soaking his britches. The rock fell from his hands and landed harmlessly by his side. Standing now, Jack aimed his knife with care. Straight for the heart this time, a nice clean blow. The second the knife was out, the guard slumped to the ground.

  Pain throbbing in his chest, shaking from head to foot, and dangerously close to panicking, Jack began to run. He had to get away. Two men dead: their screams sounding in his ears, their blood on his clothes-Rovas had done a fine job.

  Not stopping to pick up the strewn supplies, he fled from the fight scene. Racing through mud and brambles, jumping over logs and branches, he ran until the pain was too much. A sticky warmth close to the top of his tunic told him that the arrow wound had reopened. Slipping the knife into the rope that formed his belt, Jack pressed hard against the wound with his free hand. He counted to a hundred ten times before he let his hand down. The bleeding had stopped. The fabric of the tunic was stuck to his chest. Grimacing, he let it be.

  He walked slowly now, every step a concentrated effort of muscle and willpower. Without realizing it, he had drawn nearer to the garrison. Through thinning trees he spotted the gray stone walls. Ahead lay the road and the main gate. The gatehouse no longer had roof or timbers. The top layers of stone had toppled to the ground. They lay in a blackened heap surrounded by soot. Something bright caught Jack's eye. At first he thought it was a flag. Drawing nearer, he made out the freshly logged lines of a gibbet. A man in a red coat swung from its upper beam. Slowly the rope turned in the wind, and even from a distance, Jack recognized the face of his short-lived cell mate, Bringe. The man had lied himself into a hanging.

  Jack had little sympathy for him.

  A sharp blast of air buffeted his body, chilling him to the bone. Turning away from the garrison, Jack spied two hills on the horizon. Lit by sunlight escaping from a break in the clouds, they looked strangely familiar. He stood and stared at them for a moment before realizing that for months he had looked at them from the other side. Rovas' cottage lay nestled in the valley behind.

  Checking that the road was clear, Jack sprang across it, quickly making for the shelter of the woods. He walked for hours.

  The rain stopped, the temperature dropped, and the woods thinned to a single line of trees; Jack hardly noticed. He had his sights set on the joining point between the two distant hills, and reaching it was all that mattered.

  Tavalisk regarded the artichokes carefully. The look of them was the thing. It told one all one needed to know about the softness of the yellow flesh within. The broad flat bottom must sit with a certain indolence upon the platter. Like an aging whore, it must be ready to yield. The thorny leaves at the top of the bud should look like the devoted at the confessional; their desire to reveal their secrets so great that one could see them, ripe, upon their lips.

  The archbishop raised a choosing hand above the platter. They all looked so good that he was about to resort to one posy, two posy, when in walked Gamil.

  "No knock!" Tavalisk's voice was high with anger. "Such news, Your Eminence." His aide was short of breath.

  "There is no news, Gamil, that is so important it warrants an invasion of my privacy. No news at all." Tavalisk turned back to his artichokes. "Now kindly wait until I bid you speak."

  The archbishop grabbed at the nearest specimen. Testily he plucked at the outer leaves, casting them aside. He would not deign to scrape them between his teeth like a
poor man.

  He was only interested in the heart. For good measure, he threw a few Gamil's way, making sure that they were good and greasy first. Warm olive oil was near impossible to remove from silk.

  The heart emerged, urine yellow, glistening like a jewel. Tavalisk dropped it upon his tongue, where it came as close to melting as any vegetable ever could. "I think you'd better go ahead and speak, Gamil," he said, picking a second artichoke from the platter, "for holding your peace ill suits you. You look like a Marls sausage-badly stuffed and lacking in meat." In truth, Tavalisk was rather eager to hear the news, but it wouldn't do to betray that fact to his aide.

  "Our four-city force intercepted a messenger heading to Valdis. He was carrying a note addressed to Tyren himself."

  "Who was it from? The duke of Bren? Baralis?"

  "It was neither signed nor sealed, Your Eminence, but the messenger spoke with a kingdoms' accent and his livery was crested in gold."

  "Give me the letter." In his excitement, Tavalisk actually wiped his hands on his own robe.

  Gamil pulled a roll of parchment from his scribing bag and handed it to the archbishop.

  After several moments of study, Tavalisk put it down on his desk. "You realize that this letter is from Kylock?"

  "I thought as much, Your Eminence."

  "From what I can gather, he has entered into an agreement with Valdis. Tyren is sending knights to Halcus to fight on his behalf, and in return Kylock is promising the knighthood exclusive rights to northeastern trade and a cut in the spoils of war."

  "I think the deal has already been struck, Your Eminence. Just this morning I received a report from Camlee, telling of forty score of knights passing through on their way up north."

  "And our four-city force let them pass?"

  "We had little choice, Your Eminence. Our forces were spread out and there were too many to attack."

  "Hmm." Tavalisk began plucking at a third artichoke. "Were they well armed?"

  Gamil nodded. "War horses, full armor, steeled to the hilt."

  "So by the looks of things they were heading for a battle?"

  "It would appear so, Your Eminence."

  Reaching the heart, Tavalisk pounded it to a pulp with his fist. "It seems that the newly crowned king is full of surprises. First the invasion and now a secret treaty with Tyren. Young Kylock is turning out to be quite the dark horse."

  "What does Your Eminence intend to do about this?"

  "Well," said Tavalisk, scraping the pulp from his hand, "making the document public will do little good. It's notsigned, so therefore it's worthless-Kylock will simply deny he ever sent it." He poured himself a glass of wine. "However, it would be interesting to see the letter fall into the duke of Bren's hands. I'm willing to make a bet he knows nothing of this alliance, and once he learns of it. . ." Tavalisk shook his head ". . . who knows what he'll do."

  "It certainly puts him in a difficult position, Your Eminence. He is a well-known supporter of the knighthood and everyone will come to the conclusion he asked Tyren to help Kylock."

  "Undoubtedly you are right, Gamil. When this news comes to light, the duke of Bren will look like he's secretly working to bring Halcus to its knees." Tavalisk took a long gulp of wine. He was beginning to feel rather excited. "Annis and Highwall won't like this one bit. They'll take it as proof that the duke is planning a grand northern empire: Bren, the kingdoms, Halcus. It's only a matter of time before their names will be added to the list."

  "Annis and Highwall are no longer arming in secret, Your Eminence. They have both taken to parading their soldiers in the city streets for all and sundry to see. Just last week we intercepted a cargo bound for Highwall: eight covered wagons stocked with resin, sulfur, and quicklime."

  The archbishop smiled. "The stuff of siege warfare," he said. "How interesting. I hope we let them pass?"

  "Only after sufficient toll had been taken, Your Eminence."

  "Toll?" The archbishop raised his glass to his lips only to find it empty. Had he drunk that much already?

  "A wagon's worth of the three. In the correct proportions, no less. The merchant seemed not to mind. He said more was on its way."

  "Is it indeed? Highwall seems intent on stocking up for a war." Tavalisk ran his finger over the rim of the glass. "Mind you they have good reason to be, trapped as they are between Halcus and Bren."

  "If this letter were signed, Your Eminence, it would be enough to start a major war."

  "Oh, one will start anyway, Gamil. With Tyren's help, Kylock will make it through to the capital. The knighthood have had men in Helch for over five years now-supposedly negotiating peace, if I remember correctly. Anyway, after all that time they are bound to know the castle's defenses like the backs of their hands. And Tyren will certainly be feeding Kylock information along with manpower." Tavalisk's hand slipped on the glass and it fell to the tiled floor, smashing soundly.

  Without a word of encouragement, Gamil came forward, knelt down, and began to pick up the glass around the archbishop's feet. The sight of Gamil's arched back was too tempting for Tavalisk to resist, and he raised his feet up off the ground and brought them to rest on his aide's back. "All things considered, young Kylock has made a very shrewd move, bedding down with Tyren. On the other hand, of course, Tyren himself may not have been so shrewd. He's got himself involved with a cause that is anything but noble: women and children being slaughtered, towns being razed to the ground. At some point the knights are going to question the integrity of their leader."

  "But the knights are sworn to obey Tyren, Your Eminence," said the footstool. Gamil was forced to stay, kneeling down like a dog, until the archbishop removed his feet. "It's one of the founding principles of Valdis."

  "If I needed a lesson in history, Gamil, I would call a scholar, not a servant." The archbishop dug his heels into Gamil's back. "Tyren has made mercenaries out of his knights, selling their services first to Bren and now to the kingdoms." Tavalisk shook his head. "Founding principles aside, there'll be people in Valdis who aren't happy with the way things are going, and it won't be long before they make their displeasure known. No one makes more noise than the morally self-righteous."

  "Perhaps Kylock has promised them converts, Your Eminence."

  The archbishop took his feet from his aide's back. Gamil had actually said something intelligent. "You mean: `Fight for us and if we win, we'll all follow Valdis' fanaticism'?"

  Gamil nodded and stood up. "Fanaticism is a strong word, though, Your Eminence. Valdis' beliefs are, for the most part, almost identical to ours. They are just more zealous, that's all."

  "Really, Gamil, theology and history in one day. I think you missed your calling."

  "I confess, Your Eminence, that scholarship has always interested me."

  "No, not a scholar, Gamil. I was thinking more of a town crier, as they're famous for shouting out news that everyone already knows." Tavalisk smiled sweetly at his aide. "Time you were on your way, Gamil. Try and find out if there's any truth in the theory that Tyren is angling for religious control in the north. And send the letter on to the duke of Bren. Use your swiftest messenger. No, on second thoughts, tie it to a bird. Speed is of the essence."

  "A dove will not be large enough, Your Eminence." The archbishop sighed heavily. "I will follow you down later and put a compulsion on an eagle. It will ruin me for this evening, though. I'll be far too tired to bless the seven sacred strangers."

  "Perhaps you could just bless two or three of them, instead."

  Gamil was becoming a little impertinent. The ritual of the seven sacred strangers had been performed in Rorn for hundreds of years. Once a year the city gates were closed from midday to midnight. When they were opened, the first seven foreigners to pass through them were blessed by the archbishop, bathed in holy water by nubile virgins, and then given seven gold pieces by the doddering old duke himself. It was more of a commercial than a religious ritual, as it was designed to promote Rom as a city that welcomed foreign trade
and foreign money.

  Widely popular-probably due to the presence of the wet and scantily clad virgins-it was looked forward to for months. Every child ate seven cherries, every man drank seven glasses of wine, and every woman had seven bracelets jangling about her wrist. For Gamil to suggest that he should bless only two or three strangers was nothing short of blasphemy.

  "Pay the old crow in the kitchens to put the compulsion on the bird, Gamil. I will not be doing it myself." Public ceremonies were too important to miss, particularly now, when he needed the support of the masses more than ever. If war was coming, the people of Rom must trust him enough to let him take the lead. Besides, using sorcery was always a risk: one could never tell when one's drawing was being monitored. All in all, it was far better to have someone else do the job: the blame could be more easily shifted that way.

  "Is there anything else, Your Eminence?"

  The archbishop regarded his aide coolly. "Since you have treated me to so many lessons today, Gamil, I think it's time I taught you one in return. It's called the lesson of the presumptuous servant."

  Jack was learning the art of blocking everything out. He was aware of the sensations of pain, exhaustion, hunger, and thirst, but only dimly, as if he was experiencing them in a dream. In fact he felt almost drunk. But not in a light-headed, dizzy sort of way, more a heavy-headed, heavy-footed sort of way. The sensation reminded him of the times he'd been caught drinking by Master Frallit. Too much ale followed by a sound thrashing and an earful of insults did strange things to a boy's mind. Not to mention his body.

  Jack smiled to himself. He felt almost nostalgic about those beatings now. Castle Harvell existed in his memory as a safe and cherished haven where worries were purely childish and life was simple if a little dull.