A Man Betrayed (19 page)

"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.

"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 under 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.

When 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.