A Man Betrayed (23 page)

Gamil's eyes
strayed to the archbishop's lap. He looked bemused for a moment, and then said
finally, "Indeed it will."

"I don't
intend to drag the south into a war that by all rights is the north's
affair," said Tavalisk. "No. Let the north fight it out between
themselves, I am merely seeking the means of bringing matters to a head. If
things work out well, our southern friends will be eager to go along with any
plan that promises to keep the knights away from their doorsteps."

"Your
Eminence is playing a dangerous game."

"They are the
only sort worth playing, Gamil." Tavalisk dismissed his aide. He was too
caught up in the thrill of politicking to set him the usual demeaning task.

Once the door was
closed, the archbishop turned his attention to the flute. Realizing he would
never get his finger out by pulling, he smashed the instrument against the
desk. The wood cracked, and as he freed himself the splinters drew blood.
Tavalisk shrugged, brought his finger to his lips, and began to suck on the
bloody tip. It would do until he got his next meal.

Forty-nine, fifty,
done. Jack straightened his back and his vertebrae clicked in protest; he'd
been bent over too long for their liking. Six blades, each drawn fifty times
over the whetstone. He tested the sharpness of the last by splitting a strand
of his hair. He'd done a good job.

Rovas had insisted
that he learn how to take care of his large armory of weapons. So Jack had
spent much of the day nailing leather to clubs, greasing blades, restringing
bows, and filing the rust from spearheads. He enjoyed the simple discipline of
having tasks to do, especially now, when, unlike his time at the castle, he was
free to walk away if he pleased. It felt good to use his muscles, to sweat, to
ache, and to work without having to think.

Jack brushed the
hair from his forehead. It was much too long. Frallit would have reached for
his knife at the mere sight of it. Jack paused, blade in hand, and wondered
whether to hack it off. It was thick and wild and the winter sun had scattered
gold amidst the brown. When the knife fell, it sliced leather, not hair. Jack
cut a strip of cowhide and used it to tie his mane at the back. He didn't need
to conform to anyone's rules now.

Satisfied by this
small act of independence, he made his way back to the cottage. Strange how
only two days ago he'd felt an overpowering urge to leave. He still couldn't
understand the reason why. What was Bren to him? Even now he could remember the
urgency; it had been just like the times at Castle Harvell, when he'd lain
awake through the night, desperate to find adventure and purpose, yet by the
time morning came the urgency had gone.

The cottage was a
welcome haven from the cold. The fire burned brightly, casting a glow of
kinship on its surroundings. Magra sat in a tall chair, sewing, while Tarissa
tended the stew. Jack was filled with a sudden envy for Rovas. The man had this
sight to come home to every night: two women waiting for him, logs on the fire,
and hot food above it.

Rovas himself was
engaged in one of his many dubious practices. He was blowing air into legs of mutton.
Inflating the tendons like a bellows made the meat appear fatter and more
succulent than it actually was. Jack was well pleased that the
smuggler-cum-con-artist hadn't asked him to do that particular job.

Magra began to lay
food on the table: crusty bread, roasted chickens stuffed with apples and
hazelnuts, rabbit stew, and turnips braised in cider. The one thing that a
smuggler was always sure of was good food on his table. They sat down and
picked up their knives. As in most country households there was no talking
whilst eating.

Jack still hadn't
managed to figure out what held these three people together. At first he'd
assumed that Rovas and Magra were man and wife, but he'd since learned that was
not the case. They were a curious group: Magra with her elegant manners and
cool demeanor, Rovas with his bluff good humor and disregard for the niceties
of life, and Tarissa falling somewhere in between the two. Lacking her mother's
noble ways, she was softer, more easygoing, yet she still retained something of
Magra's character. Her pride, perhaps.

The food was
delicious, flavored with strong herbs and seasonings favored by the Halcus.
Jack used the opportunity of sitting around the table to steal glances at
Tarissa. He'd had no chance to talk to her since the day he'd sent a week's
worth of food into the fire. He still remembered her kiss. Kisses he'd had
before: Castle Harvell was full of young maids willing to give a young lad a
teasing peck on the lips, some even offering their tongues and tender breasts.
He'd even kissed the daughter of a lord, Melli. But Tarissa's kiss had meant
more. It held all the power and mystery that only an older woman could bestow.

Jack supposed that
she was at least five years older than he. She was of medium height and full
figured, with hips that curved more wickedly than any young girl's. He watched
her as she ate. She had an appetite to match Melli's, tearing away at chicken
bones and washing the meat down with cup after cup of cider. Unlike Melli,
however, Tarissa helped prepare what she ate. The pies and the broth were made
by her own hand. She knew how to keep a flame on the fire and how to bank the
ashes overnight. Her hands were callused, her arms were muscled, and her face
was freckled by the sun. Tarissa was no highborn lady; she was used to hard
work and fresh air. Jack admired her as she wrapped the remains of the cheese
in a cloth she first dampened with ale. He could be friends with a girl like
this.

Only he wasn't
sure if friendship would be enough. His gaze moved upward to her face. He saw
her lips were glistening with chicken fat. The cider had flushed her cheeks,
and the heat of food and fire had brought moisture to her skin. A droplet of
sweat gathered mass in the dip of her neck. When heavy enough it trickled
downward to her breast. Jack followed its progress as it slipped down the pale
skin, eventually sequestering itself beneath the fabric of her dress.

Tarissa looked up
and caught the object of his gaze. To his horror he felt himself blushing.

"It is hot in
here, isn't it?" Tarissa's smile was that of a woman who knew her charms
were being appreciated.

Jack was thankful
that she'd provided him with an excuse for turning red, but he was still
embarrassed at being caught staring at her breasts. To cover this he uttered
the first words that sprung to his lips. "A little too hot for me, I fear.
I think I might take a brief stroll outside."

"That sounds
like a good idea," said Tarissa. "I'll join you."

Jack was too
surprised to think of a reply. His problem was solved when Magra spoke up.
"It's too late for you to be going out, Tarissa," she said.

"Aye, too
cold as well," added Rovas.

Jack could tell
that Magra and Rovas were just using excuses to mask the fact that neither of
them wanted Tarissa to be alone with him. Which was rather odd, since he'd been
alone with her three days earlier. Tarissa, however, had no intention of having
her wishes curtailed. "Nonsense," she said. "I'll wrap up well
and we'll only go as far as the gate." She favored Jack with an intriguer's
smile.

Together they
walked toward the door, Tarissa pausing to don her cloak. Jack felt the
pressure of disapproving gazes. For some reason Rovas looked more annoyed than
Magra.

Night had fallen
while they ate. The sky was dark: there was neither moon nor stars to relieve
the blackness. They didn't make it as far as the gate. They sat on the wall
that formed part of the dairy shed. The only light was a glimmer escaping from
the shuttered window of the cottage.

Tarissa turned to
Jack. "So you like my breasts, eh?" Jack smiled despite himself,
liking her forthrightness, and at the same time thrilled by the sudden
intimacy. With that one sentence, she had become, in his eyes, a woman of the
world, daring and openly sexual. He cursed himself for not being able to think
of a suitably gallant and risque reply. Tarissa, for her part, didn't seem the
least put out by his silence. "You do admit you were looking at me over
the dinner table?"

"Would you be
offended if I said yes?"

"I'd be more
offended if you said no. A woman likes to feel she is attractive."

"Surely you
don't need my looks to confirm that." Tarissa smiled, the curve of her
cheek catching the shuttered light. "How old are you, Jack?"

"One and
twenty," he lied.

"Well, you're
tall enough for it, and broad as can be hoped, but your face tells a different
story from your body." She laughed. A warm and pretty sound, that was, in
Jack's opinion, exactly what the night needed to make up for the lack of stars.

"I'm eighteen."

"Aah."
Tarissa settled herself comfortably on the wall. "Do you want to know how
old I am?"

"No."

At last he'd said
something that pleased her. She leaned forward. Her cloak fell apart; the cleft
of her breast was deep with shadows. Gently, she pressed her mouth against his.

Her lips were soft
and still salty with chicken fat. Her tongue was cidered and succulent. Their
bodies drew close with little prompting. Jack's hand strayed to the meat of her
hips.

His saliva washed
her palate clean and he tasted the woman beneath the meal. Tarissa pulled back
abruptly. Her breath came heavily, emphasizing the swell of her breast. There
was a look to her face that Jack could not comprehend. She gently eased his
hands from her hips.

"Perhaps you
are too young for me after all."

It was a cruel
blow, which she was well aware of, for her eyes carefully avoided him. Jack was
confused but not surprised. He'd spent plenty of time listening to Grift's
advice about women, and the one thing the castle guard was consistent about was
that women had been born to confound men. Jack knew Tarissa had been more than
willing: her tongue had been his guide. Thwarted desire turned to anger.

"Why did you
pull away?" he demanded, grabbing hold of her wrist.

"I already
told you. Or do you need me to repeat it twice, like a nurse to an
infant?"

Jack's arm was up
in an instant. Only a great feat of willpower stopped him from slapping her.
And she knew it. "Tell me the truth," he said, his other hand still
holding on to her wrist. "What am I to you?" It became clear to Jack
that his demand went deeper than what had happened between them this night.
"Ever since I've been here, I've heard nothing but lies and evasions. Why
are you so interested in murdering the captain who killed Melli? And what
really happened to her?" Jack was shaking. "You were there the day
she was murdered. Tell me what you saw."

Tarissa turned
back to the light. "Let go of my wrist, and then I will tell you what I
can."

Jack obliged, and
seeing the red marks that he'd raised on her flesh, he felt a measure of
remorse. This he hid as well as he could; anger was getting him further than
moderation.

An owl called out,
its baleful cry announcing the darkest hours of the night, hours given to
witchcraft and deception and worse. The wind, which had been a cold but gentle
breeze, showed its teeth and gnawed at Jack's bones. Tarissa spoke:

"I didn't see
much the day your friend died. I had to keep myself hidden. I couldn't risk
being picked up by the Halcus guard. I was a distance away, in the trees that
surrounded the pond where you laid the dead man to rest. I saw the riders
approaching. Two men, the captain and his deputy, entered the coop, closing the
door behind them. They were in there less than an hour, and when they came out,
there was blood on the deputy's club."

"Later on,
when the riders had withdrawn, I went down to the coop. The girl Melli lay dead
on the floor."

Jack's stomach
constricted and his throat became dry: Melli had suffered more than he thought.
He should have been the one to die. He should never have left her alone that
day. His thoughts turned abruptly, as if his mind was defending itself against
the torments of guilt. "The body is still there, then?"

"No,
no," said Tarissa quickly. She would not meet Jack's eye. "The
captain sent two soldiers out the next day to pick up the body."

The owl called
again. To Jack, it was as if the unseen predator was confirming his doubts.
Tarissa was not telling the whole truth. He studied her as best he could in the
darkness. Her eyes were downcast, a tendon on her neck quivered delicately, but
it was her hands that gave her away. She was clutching the fabric of her dress
with such force that the fabric was beginning to rip.

Jack reached for
Tarissa's shoulders and began to shake her. "I want
the truth!"

"Easy now,
Jack." It was Rovas. His voice was a thickly buttered warning.

Tarissa stepped
back and looked toward Rovas. "Go on in, Tarissa," he said. She stood
defiant. "I would speak with Jack man-to-man. Now be gone." Tarissa
held her position a moment longer and then made her way back to the cottage.
Both men watched in silence until the door was closed behind her.

Rovas turned to
Jack. "You touch one hair on her head again, and as Borc is my witness, I
will kill you!"

Jack was almost
pleased by the threat; his anger now had a legitimate challenge. "I
wouldn't be so sure that you could."

"You're no
match for me, boy." Rovas was contemptuous. "You're nothing more than
an overgrown sapling. You can barely hold a blade."

"There are
things more dangerous than any weapon." Rovas looked at him keenly, eyes
narrowing to slits in his brawny face. Moments passed while the two men stood
against each other. Then, to Jack's surprise, Rovas slapped him hard on the
back.

"You have a nice
way with intimidation, Jack," he said. "Have you ever considered
joining the Halcus? Intimidation is the one element of soldiering they take
seriously." Rovas laughed merrily at his own joke.