A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "I speak of all things, Lord Baralis." The duke was smiling, his eyes skimming the lake. "Everything is fine today."

  Baralis did not like the way the man sounded. "Perhaps you should tell me what you're so pleased about, Your Grace. I for one see nothing to inspire such satisfaction."

  "You're a little sour for a man who is about to receive good news."

  "Most things turn sour when they have been kept waiting too long."

  The Hawk spun around. "Then I shall make you wait no longer. You know why I have summoned you here?"

  ",I know why you have failed to summon me before now."

  "I admit I have been somewhat slow in setting a firm date for my daughter's marriage, but I intend to rectify that, here, today." The duke stepped forward. "Tell me, Lord Baralis, does two months hence seem fair warning to you?"

  This was the last thing Baralis had expected. He had come to the meeting with the belief that the duke would delay him further, either that or attempt to back out of the match completely. He hid his surprise. "Two months will take us into summer. That appears to be satisfactory. I will, of course, require written proof of your intent." Baralis expected the duke to balk at his request, but the man merely nodded.

  "You will have it within a week. I will set my scribes scribing and my lawyers lawyering. Do you need anything else?"

  Suspicion replaced surprise. The duke was being too accommodating. "Might I ask Your Grace what has brought on his sudden urge to name the day?"

  "Certainly, Lord Baralis. Catherine came to me yesterday and begged me to set a date." The duke smiled smoothly. "What father can refuse a daughter's plea?"

  He was lying, Baralis was sure of it. "How strange she never thought to plead before now."

  "Come now, Baralis. I would have thought you've had enough experience with women to know that the one thing they are is unpredictable." The duke was looking rather pleased with himself.

  "When exactly did you become so indulgent over women?"

  The acid-toned question had a marked effect on the duke. His smile petered to a thin line and his brows came down to meet his nose. He cut abruptly across the room. "I have more important things to do with my time than trade barbs with you, Lord Baralis. I have said my piece, now make your arrangements."

  Baralis was not so easily dismissed. "When can I make the official announcement?"

  "I will make the official announcement, Lord Baralis. The Feast of First Sowing is in four nights time; I shall do it then."

  "That will leave me no time to consult with the king."

  "I can always put it off, if you wish."

  Baralis did not like this one little bit, but as the duke was well aware, an announcement without royal clearance was better than no announcement at all. "That will not be necessary. First Sowing is fine."

  "I thought that would be agreeable to you." The duke gave Baralis a shrewd look. "You may go now. I trust you will be discreet until I make my decision public." He turned his back and began to look over the contents of his desk. Baralis had no choice but to bow and leave.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Maybor thought he was going mad. He had heard it happened to people who did not eat enough meat, but each month he personally ate enough pork and venison to supply an entire village for a year. So he couldn't understand it. Now, if it had been fish, it would have been a different matter altogether. Fish was the food of women and priests and he never, ever, ate it unless it was well stuffed with meat.

  The thing that was fueling his fancy was that on two occasions over the past few days he could swear he'd seen his daughter wandering around the palace. Just this morning, less than an hour ago, he had been making his way-discreetly, of course-from a certain lady's chamber. Hearing footsteps, he'd looked around to see a girl walking in the distance. The sight of the tall slim figure with dark hair falling to her waist set his heart aflutter. It looked like Melliandra. A golden-haired man walked behind her. Forgetting discretion, Maybor followed the two, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl's face. They walked down a series of corridors and stairs, and finally disappeared behind a heavy bronze door. The girl never turned around once.

  The moment she disappeared, Maybor began to doubt that she was his daughter at all. Probably just some young noblewoman who happened to share Melliandra's height and coloring. He tried to dismiss the incident as folly, but it played on his mind. Twice he had seen the mysterious girl and each time he could have sworn she was his daughter. Which, in Maybor's reckoning, made him either a madman or a fool.

  Melliandra could be anywhere in the north. He had written to his son Kedrac asking him to offer a reward to any man who found her, but so far no one had come forward. Maybor rubbed his jowls. If only he was there himself. He would personally see to it that his daughter was found. If nothing else, he was a man who could make things happen.

  Though only in the kingdoms. And that was, as he saw it, the real reason behind his madness: he was sick of being stuck in a city where he wielded no real power and where no one realized just how wealthy and influential he was. It was enough to drive Borc himself insane! Indeed, if he remembered his scriptures correctly, toward the end Borc was overcome with visions of his long lost family. Perhaps he had stayed too long in Bren, as well!

  "More meat, Prisk," he called to his manservant. Thinking for a moment, he added, "And bring me some fish, tooa meaty one, mind, not a fishy one." A man could never be too careful in matters concerning his sanity.

  Prisk, a skinny man with a birthmark the size of a cucumber running across his face, stood his ground and coughed, which was his way of letting his master know that he had something to say to him.

  "What is it, Prisk?" barked Maybor. "Speak. Don't stand there coughing like a man with the 'tubes."

  "A message from the duke, my lord. He requests a brief meeting with you in the privacy of his chambers."

  Maybor rose up and slapped the man in the face. "How dare you not tell me before now?" He turned his back on the stunned servant. "Fetch me my cloak, the red one lined with ermine. And cut me a lemon for my breath."

  Minutes later, Maybor was striding through the palace looking like a king. Later perhaps, after he had seen the duke, he might pay a visit to his ladyfriend; it would be a shame for such magnificence to go to waste.

  As he passed through the great hall, he spotted someone he hadn't seen for several days: Baralis. The man was walking along with Shark at his side. When he saw Maybor, he changed his course. The dog followed him like a shadow.

  "Good morning, Lord Maybor," said Baralis, his voice rich with contempt. "Attending a coronation, are we?" His eyes swept across Maybor's cloak.

  Shark growled right on cue. Maybor could hardly believe that Shark, his Shark, was growling at him. A quick scan around was enough to ensure him that there were too many people present for Baralis to get up to any funny stuff. "What have you done with my dog?" he demanded.

  "My dog, now, I think," corrected Baralis. He stroked the dog's ears lovingly. "I have quite a way with animals, you know."

  Maybor wanted to draw his sword and hack the man's head off. He had loved that dog! True, he had always been a little afraid of it, but he had grown very fond of it toward the end. And to watch it rubbing up against Baralis' leg, like a she-cat in heat, was more than he could stand. "You have bewitched it," he hissed.

  "And you, Lord Maybor," said Baralis with irritating calmness, "trained it to kill me."

  "Prove it."

  Baralis smiled softly. "The fact that the attempt failed is proof enough for me."

  "You think you're so clever, don't you, Baralis? But it won't be long before you're sent back to the kingdoms with your tail between your legs. The duke has no intention of marrying his daughter to Kylock." Maybor was quite sure of what he said; after all, the duke had been dragging his heels over naming a date for weeks. Now, with Kylock rapidly closing in on the Halcus capital, he was less likely to agree to the match than ever.

  Baralis actually l
aughed. "Oh, Lord Maybor, you are woefully misinformed. Particularly for a man whose title is king's envoy." Baralis brought his hand to his chin, as if deep in thought. "But then, you are envoy to a dead king. Lesketh did spend the best part of winter in his grave."

  Maybor was rapidly losing his temper. He spoke between gritted teeth, spittle escaping with his words. "What is your point, Baralis?"

  "My point, Lord Maybor, is that the duke and I have already decided upon a date for the wedding. If you weren't so busy training dogs and dressing up like royalty, then you might have discovered that for yourself."

  "How dare you!"

  Baralis swooped close. "No. How dare you, Lord Maybor? Any more attempts on my life like the last one, and I will smite you down where you stand." He pulled away, eyes flashing with hatred. "And after our last little encounter in this hall, you know that is no idle threat."

  Both men stood glaring at each other for a moment. Baralis finally turned away. Tapping Shark gently on her neck, he said, "Come my precious, let us leave this place. Your old master has things to do-like acquaint himself with current events, for one thing." He inclined his head to Maybor and then cut a path toward the kitchens. Shark matched him step for step.

  Maybor watched them go. He hated Baralis with a loathing so deep he felt it in his bones and in his blood. The man was a demon.

  Smoothing down his robe, Maybor looked around the hall. No one was close enough to have heard what was said. A young maid with a milk yoke across her shoulders, and a pleasing plumpness about her waist, caught his eye and smiled. He turned away. He had too much on his mind for even the briefest of flirtations. For one thing, he was late for the duke. Though he now felt less inclined to be prompt than he had five minutes ago. If what Baralis had said was true, then he and the duke had decided upon the wedding date and the arrangements without once consulting him. It was an outrage! As king's envoy he should have been party to all meetings concerning the match. Maybor flew up the stairs. He would have a few choice words to say to His Grace. Madman he might be, but he was nobody's fool.

  Arriving at the entrance to the duke's chamber, Maybor was greeted by a plainly dressed guard. The man waved him through to a discreet flight of stairs. Maybor could not help but appreciate the arrangement, as the staircase meant the duke's chamber was actually on a separate, higher level than the entrance. Good for both security and privacy. When he finally got out of this Borc-forsaken city, he would have something similar built in his Eastlands estate.

  The door at the top was heavy and imposing, and as it was unguarded, Maybor opened it for himself. He found himself in a large reception room. The duke, who had been standing by his desk studying various papers, came forward to meet him.

  "Aah, Lord Maybor. I am gratified that you could come on such short notice." He threw a glance back to his desk. "And I am well pleased that you came when you did; you have saved me from certain boredom. I enjoy reading contracts about as much as I enjoy having leeches pulled." The duke grasped his hand firmly. "Well met, friend. Sit and I will pour us some wine. You have a taste for lobanfern red I believe?" Not waiting for an answer, he turned and started pouring wine into cups.

  Maybor was thrown a little off balance. First of all, he had expected to be met by a second set of guards, not the duke himself, and second, he couldn't understand why the man had greeted him as if he were a long lost friend.

  "There you are, Maybor," said the duke, handing him a brimming cup. "I think a toast is in order, don't you?"

  "It depends upon what we're toasting."

  The duke smiled and raised his cup toward Maybor's. "Let us toast to the future. For it looks better today than it has in many weeks."

  Maybor pulled his cup away. "So it is true that you have set a date for the wedding?"

  The duke just managed to save his wine from spilling onto the floor. "Who told you this?" he demanded. "Baralis."

  "When?"

  Maybor did not like answering questions like a common servant. "That's not important. I want to know exactly when you and he came to this agreement."

  "Baralis and I came to no agreement. I merely informed him of my intentions. He had no say in the matter."

  Maybor grunted. It was just like Baralis to exaggerate the part he played in events. "Why was I not informed at the same time as he?"

  "I brought him here late last night with the lawyers and scribes. I wanted to see you alone, by myself, today." The duke took a sip of his wine. His hawked nose rested against the rim of the cup. "Tell me, Lord Maybor, am I right in supposing that you have been somewhat reluctant in your support of the match?"

  Maybor did not like to mince words. "I don't trust Baralis one little bit. The man is too ambitious for his own good. I think he's trying to place Kylock in a position where he can take over the entire north-including Bren. And frankly, Your Grace, I'm surprised that you're about to sit back and let him." Maybor finished his speech by downing the lobanfern in one. With a certain amount of satisfaction, he slammed the empty cup on the table.

  The duke did not seem at all surprised by his outburst. He stood very still, one hand on his cup, the other resting against the hilt of his sword, and said quietly, "Lord Maybor, when you get to know me better, you will come to realize that I never sit back."

  Maybor was impressed by the duke's tone, but he didn't want him to know it. "None of this will be my concern much longer, Your Grace. Sit back or forward-do whatever you will. My job is done here and I shall be returning to the kingdoms as soon as arrangements can be made." Although he was speaking for dramatic effect, the idea of going home appealed greatly to Maybor. It would be good to sleep in his own bed, to eat good plain kingdoms food, and to be amongst people who respected him.

  "I wouldn't go just yet, if I were you, Lord Maybor." There was something strange about the duke's voice. "What do you mean?" asked Maybor.

  "I mean, my friend, that you should at least stay until the Feast of First Sowing. That is when I intend to make the official wedding announcement." The Hawk was smiling slyly .

  "I will stay, if that is an official request."

  "No, stay for a different reason."

  "What reason?"

  "Stay because you might be pleasantly surprised by what you hear and who you meet."

  "I have no love of riddles, Your Grace." Maybor was becoming a little impatient.

  "Neither do I, my friend. So I will say this much: stay until the Feast of First Sowing, and you will finally see your fellow envoy put in his place." The duke crossed over to the door and opened it. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to visit the bride-to-be herself."

  Maybor followed him out of the door. Together they walked down the staircase and through to the main entrance. When they reached the outer door, the duke turned and put his hand on Maybor's arm.

  "Before you go," he said, "let me give you some advice."

  Advice? Maybor did not like the sound of this. "Go on."

  "The Feast of First Sowing may provide a few shocks to those sitting around the table, but I would suggest that you, my friend, try to conceal your surprise. It would please me greatly if I knew I could count on your . . ." the duke searched for the appropriate word ". . . composure."

  Maybor stepped away. He would not agree to something blindly. "I will make you no promises, Your Grace." Strangely, the duke seemed satisfied with this. "As you wish." He inclined his head and began to walk down the long corridor in the direction of the ladies' quarters.

  Maybor headed in the opposite direction, his step lighter than when he had come. He didn't know what to make of the meeting, but it would certainly do no harm to stay put for a few days to discover what the duke was up to. Anything that promised the unraveling of Baralis' plans was well worth waiting for.

  "Well, you're right and you're wrong, Bodger," said Grift. "It is true that ale makes a man randy and then hinders his performance, but really it all depends on the amount of ale he drinks."

  "You mean the more he drinks
the less impressive his performance gets?"

  "Aye, pretty much so, Bodger. However, a little known fact is that eventually, if a man drinks enough ale-say, twenty skins full-he passes through the drunken stage and emerges on the other side as a rollickin' god of a stallion."

  "A rollickin' god of a stallion, Grift?"

  "Aye, Bodger. You've heard that if men on the battlefield go long enough without washing then they actually get clean again on their own?"

  "Aye, Grift."

  "Well, it's exactly the same for ale. Drink enough of it and a man will eventually end up as sober as a bailiff and randy as an owl. The trouble with most men, Bodger, is that they just don't have the staying power to see it through. They haven't got the guts for it."

  "What about you, Grift? Have you ever reached the rollickin' stallion stage?"

  "What d'you think put the smile on Widow Harpit's face last Winter's Eve, Bodger?"

  Bodger thought for a moment, nodded, poured himself a cup of ale, drank it, and then poured himself another one. "Easy dgoes it, Bodger. Timing is everything."

  Bodger downed the second cup and poured himself a third. "I think I'll be arranging to see Tessa the ash maid tonight."

  "You can do better than an ash maid, Bodger. Lowest of the low, they are. You don't want to rollick beneath yourself."

  "Ash maids can't be beneath me, Grift. I remember you once said that the most refined girl in all the kitchens was none other than an ash maid. Jack's mother, I think she was."

  "Aye, Bodger, I did at that. Lucy was her name." Grift smiled tenderly. "A beautiful girl. Clever, too. Of course, she wasn't always an ash maid-that's the difference here."

  "What was she before, then?"

  "A chambermaid, Bodger. She used to spend all her time upstairs in the nobles' quarters. Then, once she got pregnant, she sort of hid herself down in the kitchens. She took the lowliest job she could get: tending the great cooking fire, and never once set foot in the nobles' quarters again."

  "That seems a big odd, Grift."