A Man Betrayed (79 page)

As soon as the
dark nobleman came to the door, she knew he was from the Four Kingdoms. When he
asked to see the mercenary, her interest was piqued. While her sister went off
to fetch Traff, Mistress Greal made her way outside. She waded through the
filth at the side of the building to the back wall. Once there she positioned
herself close to the window and listened to the conversation between man and
mercenary. Her surprise at finding out that the mysterious nobleman was none
other than Lord Baralis, king's chancellor, was quickly overwhelmed by the
greater surprise of hearing what he planned to do.

Mistress Greal had
been listening at doors, windows, walls, floorboards, and screens all her life.
It was amazing . what a poor spinster woman could pick up if she had sharp ears
and a good nose for intrigue. Mistress Greal had both. As a matter of habit, she
routinely eavesdropped on her girls, her customers, her rivals, and most
recently her sister, Madame Thornypurse. She'd heard casual gossip, lots of
petty arguments, more than a few useful business tips, and many unpleasant
remarks about herself. But never once in all the years she'd spent pointing her
batlike ears where they had not been invited had she come across anything to
match the scale of what she'd just heard.

A plot to
assassinate the duke of Bren! It was a blackmailer's dream. Mistress Greal stood
amidst the warm and stinking sewage and contemplated what to do next. Should
she act now and prevent the murder from going ahead? Or should she bide her
time until the deed was done and only then make her move? Raising her hand to
her face, Mistress Greal rubbed a finger across her lips. She felt the all too
familiar concavity that marked the absence of teeth. Teeth that had been
knocked out by Lord Maybor. The very man who was father of the bride.

Mistress Greal's
small eyes narrowed to slits. She would let the murder go ahead. Lord Maybor
would suffer more that way; he would lose both his daughter, and his chance to
be related by marriage to the duke. Yes, she would keep her little secret until
the harm had been done. Not only was there more satisfaction to be gained that
way, but also more money: everyone knew it was more profitable to be a
blackmailer than an informant. Feeling rather pleased with herself, Mistress
Greal headed back toward the brothel, wading slowly through the filth.

"There,
boy," said Stillfox, handing him a peculiar wooden cup. "Drink some
of the lacus; it will help to bring you round."

Jack's world
gradually began to expand outward once more. His field of vision, which upon
hearing that Helch had surrendered to Kylock had narrowed to a darkened
pinpoint, now enlarged enough for him to see the cup and the hand that held it.
The drink's strong but fragrant odor seemed to act like a charm, dispelling the
reek of slowly decaying corpses from his nostrils and his thoughts.

He had been there!
To
the Halcus capital. He had stood amidst the carnage that Kylock had
created. There, and so many other places, whether in the future or the past, he
did not know. He had seen the truth of war. It was not the sum of glorious
fights and flashing blades and men bound by honor. It was bloody, dirty, and
disorganized. Flies, fever, infection, mud, tainted water, and starvation.
Victory came to the most ruthless, not the bravest. Jack had seen the bodies of
young children, their mothers raped and mutilated by their sides; he had seen
young men bleeding to death from the groin, their manhood and testicles hacked
off; he had seen old women wandering aimlessly through a city whose streets
were red with blood. Jack had seen enough to know that Kylock was the most
ruthless of all.

Yet what
difference did it make to him? He had no part in anything.

Feeling weary and
confused, Jack brought the cup to his lips. The silvery fluid reached out to
meet his tongue. It tasted sharp and pungent, strange and yet familiar in one.
He felt its progress as it slipped down his throat and nudged itself into his
belly. Once there it grew heavy like a manycourse feast.

"Don't fight
it, Jack," said Stillfox. "It wants to make you sleep."

"Why?"

"The lacus
likes to work on a slumbering body and a still mind." Stillfox ran his
hand over his cleanly shaven chin. His expression was serious. "Drink up
lad, you are very weak."

Jack drained the
cup dry. There was something about the liquid that caused it to tingle against
his gums. It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth. "Is there sorcery
within the drink?" he asked.

Stillfox nodded, a
faint smile gracing his pale lips. "Not my doing, though. We have the
nomads of the Great Plains to thank for that." He stood up and began to
busy himself about the cottage, hanging herbs and putting pots on to boil.

Jack yawned. He
could still hear the sound of shouting from outside. "How long was I . . .
"

"Entranced?"
Stillfox looked up; he was pulverizing bark with a pestle. "For the best
part of an hour, I would say. You completely withdrew into yourself. Your eyes
were open, but they were not seeing what was before them. Your skin became cold
and the color left your cheeks. You were no longer in my home." The man
who was almost, but not quite, old gave Jack a questioning look.

Jack wondered how
much to tell him. Who was he? Could he trust him? Since arriving in the
herbalist's cottage the day before, Stillfox had said very little. He had been
too busy to talk: tending wounds, making medicines, cooking food, and seeing to
his herbs. Jack appreciated the silence. Stillfox had asked no questions, and
he was grateful for that. Normally Jack would have trusted the man completely,
judging his intentions by the kindness of his actions. Things were different now.
His time at Rovas' cottage had taught him that appearances could be deceptive,
and that even a smiling face could be a treacherous one.

"What did you
mean when you said you recognized one of your own?" As Jack spoke, he
realized how tired he was feeling. The lacus nestled in his belly, slowing his
blood and thickening his thoughts. He fought against it, in defiance of
Stillfox's advice.

"I am a
sorcerer like you," said Stillfox.

Jack had quickly
learned that the herbalist had two voices: a lilting country voice which he
spoke with most of the time, and a strong plain-speaking voice which he only
used when the conversation took a serious turn. It was the second voice he
spoke with now.

"I am a
modest practitioner. Occasionally I enhance the healing properties of my herbs,
but not often. Sometimes I communicate with wisemen far away, and once in a
while I am forced to draw in self-defense." Stillfox shrugged. "I am
not a powerful man like you."

Jack felt the
quick flare of anger. "I'm not powerful, and I'm not a sorcerer." He
squeezed the wooden cup between his hands, determined to ruin its perfect
smoothness.

"Don't make a
liar of yourself, Jack. You know I speak the truth." Stillfox's voice had
a matching edge of anger. "The longer you insist on denying what you are,
the more damage you will do. Look what happened at the garrison. You were out
of control. You didn't have the slightest idea how to stop what you started.
Sheer desperation-nothing more-put an end to the destruction." The
herbalist was trembling. "You're dangerous and it's time you learned how
to control yourself."

Jack felt the cup
break in his hand. "What makes you think you know so much?"

"I felt it. I
felt the blind unfocused rage. I felt wave after ceaseless wave of
drawing." Stillfox's hand was up and pointing. "Don't flatter
yourself, Jack. You might be strong, but you have no skill whatsoever. What you
did at the garrison was unforgivable. You let your emotions form the drawing:
the most foolish thing any sorcerer could do. You acted like a spoiled
child-making others pay for your pain. Your power is matched only by your
ignorance."

"And that's
why I brought you here, Jack. Not because I'm in the habit of helping
road-weary travelers, but because you're a danger to those around you, and it's
about time someone took you in hand."

Jack was aware
that Stillfox was looking at him, but he couldn't meet the herbalist's eyes. He
looked down at the broken cup instead. He was no longer angry; he was ashamed.
Everything Stillfox had said was true.

"I never
meant to hurt anyone."

Stillfox was
beside him in an instant, his arm coming to rest on Jack's shoulder. "I
know, lad. I know." The herbalist's voice was soft and lilting once more.
"I'm sorry I spoke harshly-"

"No, don't
be," said Jack. "I deserved it. You're right, I am dangerous."
He let the pieces of cup fall to the floor. It was time to place his trust in
someone. He took a deep breath. "I need help. I don't know what's
happening to me, or why I've got these powers. I feel as if I'm supposed to do
something, only I don't know what it is."

Stillfox nodded
gently. "What did you see before?"

"I saw Helch
as clearly as if I were there. The blood, the flies, the bodies." Jack
shuddered, remembering. "It was like a warning."

"And has
anything like this happened before?"

"Yes. There
have been other times in the past few months." Jack made a small, helpless
gesture with his hand. "Whenever the war is mentioned, my stomach knots
up, and I get an overwhelming urge to take off and be part of it."

"To go to Helch?"

"No. To
Bren." Jack met Stillfox's gaze. "I think I've known all along that
Kylock would win the war with the Halcus."

"He hasn't
won yet," said Stillfox. "The capital may have fallen, but all of
eastern Halcus is free. It could take Kylock weeks, even months, before the
entire country surrenders."

"What happens
when it does?" Jack thought he already knew the answer, yet he wanted to
hear it from Stillfox, from a man who lived in Annis.

"The north
will turn into a battlefield. No one will be willing to stand around and watch
Kylock build himself an empire. The fact that he's made it to Helch has caught
every one by surprise. It's nothing short of miraculous, and Highwall and Annis
are both terrified that they could become victims of a similar miracle."
Stillfox was back pounding at the bark with his pestle. "Kylock will soon
have Bren on one side of the mountains and Halcus on the other. And it won't be
long before he turns his gaze on the powers in between."

"How soon
will this happen?" asked Jack.

"I can't say.
It depends on Kylock. Annis and Highwall are waiting to see what he'll do
next."

Jack suddenly felt
very tired. The lacus was reasserting itself. He stifled a yawn. It wouldn't be
long now before he fell asleep. "What has all this to do with me, though?
I'm from the kingdoms. I should be glad that Kylock looks set to forge an
empire."

"I think you
already know the answer to that, Jack," said Stillfox softly. g"You
have a part to play in what is to come."

"But
why"

"It doesn't
matter why. That's not important. It's how that counts. What happened at the
garrison proves that you are somehow involved in the war. Without knowing it
you actually aided Kylock's cause." Stillfox spoke quickly and in earnest.
"What you need to do now is gain some measure of control over your powers
so that nothing like that happens again. Next time you form a drawing you
should know exactly what you're doing, and what the consequences are going to
be. I can't tell you what your role will be-that's for you to find out on your
own-but I can prevent you from making further mistakes. You need to be taught
how to master what you have inside. That much I can do."

Jack looked into
Stillfox's blue eyes. "Why would you do this for me?"

"Perhaps I,
too, have a role. Perhaps I am meant to teach you."

"No, Bodger,
if you want to get a girl randy, you don't give her oysters."

"Why not,
Grift?"

"Because you
can never be too sure with oysters, Bodger. They're more likely to give a wench
a nasty rash around the vitals than get her feeling randy."

"Really,
Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger.
That's if she doesn't choke on 'em first."

"What food
does get the women going, then, Grift?"

"Bread
pudding, Bodger."

"Bread
pudding, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger.
The strongest aphrodisiac known to man. There's not a wench alive who won't be
willing to lie flat on her back after two servings of good and thick bread
pudding. It takes the fight right out of a girl."

"So it
doesn't exactly make a wench raudy, then, Grift. It just sort of wears them out."

"Exactly,
Bodger. That's the best a man like you can hope for." Grift took a swig of
his ale. "Mind they don't eat it with sauce, though."

"Why's that,
Grift?"

"Sauce makes
wenches uppity, Bodger. Start demanding satisfaction, they do."

"Ah,
gentlemen, as talkative as ever, I see."

Bodger and Grift
both swung around at the sound of the smooth, mocking voice.

Baralis was
standing by the entrance to the chapel. He had managed to open the door and
step inside without being heard. "You are alone?" he asked as he
closed the door.

Grift nodded.
"Aye, sir." By his foot lay an empty jug of ale, and he silently
nudged it under the pew. He didn't want Baralis knowing how much they had been
drinking.

"Good. Then I
will get straight to the point. You do recall that you owe me a debt of
gratitude?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "I could have had both
of you whipped for the insolence of your tongues." A tiny smile graced his
lips. "And still could, if I chose."

"We're most
sorry about what we said on the journey here, Lord Baralis," said Bodger.
"We meant no offense." Grift placed a silencing hand on Bodger's arm.
He
would deal with this. "What do you want from us, Lord
Baralis?" The man was not after apologies. He had come to strike a deal.