A Man Betrayed (15 page)

Thinking of birds
of prey, Melli noticed that Fiscel had the eye of a predator. His gaze was
sharp, focused, cold as metal. That was his good eye, of course. His bad eye
had the look of the prey. Melli giggled merrily and wondered why she only had
such witty thoughts when she'd been drinking. A small, detached part of her
argued that perhaps she did have such thoughts when sober, only they didn't
seem so amusing to a sound mind and a dry belly.

She most
definitely had a wet belly now. Wet Belly Melli! She laughed brightly and
Fiscel laughed, too. The flesh-trader looked so repulsive when he laughed that
the sight of him made Melli laugh more. The raven-haired Alysha just smiled, a
smile soft with all the guile and complicity that women of the Far South were
famous for.

Fiscel refilled
her cup. The brimming glass was unsteady in her hand and wine spilled on the
rush-covered floor. Melli bent forward to see how much wine was lost. As her
head came up, she caught a glance and a nod exchanged between her hosts. Alysha
moved toward the foot of the bed. Strangely, amidst all her feelings of drunken
glee and growing trepidation, Melli found herself envying the older woman. She
moved like a temptress. The beauty that was denied in her face flourished in
the ravishing but effortless grace of her movements. Melli felt like a country
bumpkin in her presence.

With arms so fluid
as to seem almost without bone, Alysha reached for the embroidered sack. A pull
on the thread revealed its contents: rope, coiled like a snake. Something
glinted in the center of the coil.

Melli tried to
focus upon the shiny object, but her eyes refused to do her bidding.

Fiscel settled
back in his comfortable chair. He had the satisfied look of a connoisseur about
to enjoy a feast. Wet Belly Melli was beginning to feel like Melli On a Spit.

The bright flash
of metal drew her eye and turned her stomach. Alysha drew a blade from her
belt. Its haft was encrusted with pearls. The dark-haired woman knelt before
the rope and began to cut its length. She was adept with a blade and even
managed to endow the business of rope cutting with a certain capable elegance.

When she'd
finished there were four lengths of rope. Up came the beautiful neck, revealing
a half smile on the unlovely face. "Come," she beckoned, the first
word she'd spoken in Melli's presence. "Come and join me. I will promise
not to hurt you." A voice to match her movements, not her face. A
beautiful, husky voice that hinted of things exotic and forbidden.

Melli was suddenly
afraid. She looked to the door and saw that Fiscel caught the action. His good
hand lay resting upon his walking stick. The end of the stick was formed by a
large swelling of wood a fist thick. Melli understood the threat even before
the flesh-trader's fingers enclosed the weighted end. She looked back to
Alysha, who was sitting patiently on the bed. The dark-haired woman raised a hand
of invitation. She was playing the game as if Melli had free will. Melli knew
there was no choice; the invitation nothing but an order in disguise.

As if reading her
thoughts, the woman said, "Come willingly to me now and I will be gentle.
Refuse and I may have to hurt you." There was bone to the flesh after all,
and tough meat beneath.

Drinking all that
almond liqueur followed by numerous glasses of cheap wine had been a terrible
mistake. Melli was pretty sure that she was in no state to make a run for it,
or to put up a fight. There was one option, though.

She began to
scream at the top of her voice. Melli was pleasantly surprised at how loud and
jarring a sound came from her lips.

She didn't see the
blow coming. She felt the excruciating impact, heard the thud of wood against
her skull. Tears came to her eyes and spittle to her lips. Stumbling forward,
she fell into the waiting arms of Alysha. The woman dragged her onto the bed.

Melli's head was
caught in a spiral of pain and heaviness. She was tempted to give in and pass
out. Forcing herself to stay conscious, she focused on the pain rather than the
heaviness. The back of her head throbbed like a hive. Even in her dull and
drunken state she realized the blow had been placed with care; a knock on the back
of the head would leave no noticeable scars or bruises. Her hair would cover
the consequences. Fiscel was obviously a man who treated his merchandise with
due consideration. Melli felt a certain spiteful delight in the fact that she
was already marked goods. Six welts on her back would bring her desirabilityand
very probably her price-right down.

Alysha bent over
her and began to spread her arms. Melli could do nothing; it was taking all her
concentration just keeping the room in focus. The raven-haired woman drew her
arm out to the side and then above her head. She reached over for the length of
rope and tied Melli's wrist to the bedpost. The rope was soft against her
wrist, its touch nearly a caress. Alysha pulled hard on the silken rope and the
caress became a vise. Fear and bile bubbled within Melli's stomach. She felt
the mix burn in her throat. Once both arms were secure, Alysha's cool touch
fell upon Melli's leg, drawing it out and to the side. The rope found one ankle
and then the other.

Melli was spread-eagled
on the bed. She raised her head, an achievement in itself considering it
weighed twice as much as normal. Fiscel was back on his well-cushioned chair,
and Alysha stood above her, knife in hand.

The dark-haired
woman wielded the blade like a professional. One moment its tip rested against
Melli's bodice, the next it was slicing a path down her dress.

The knife! Melli
felt it fall from her skin along with the fabric. She waited, breath in body,
for its discovery. A few seconds passed, and she risked raising her head once
more. Alysha was sitting cross-legged on the floor; it looked as if she was
polishing something. Melli glanced down at her dress. The fabric of her bodice
lay unfurled on both sides like opened petals. Most of the knife was concealed
under the dress, but the edge of the hilt could be seen jutting from the folds.
Melli shifted her body slightly, and fabric and knife fell toward her. Next,
she raised her back and shoulders, and the knife slipped down toward her waist.
When she lay flat once more, the knife was hidden beneath her.

She was allowed no
time to enjoy her triumph. Alysha came and sat by the foot of the bed, between
her legs. In her hand she was holding what looked to Melli to be a smooth piece
of glass. Melli felt her undergarments fall away from her skin. She flushed
with shame.

"Such a
pretty body," said Alysha. "Not as skinny as I thought. You would
render a fair amount of fat."

Melli raised her
head as Alysha lowered hers. The woman was kneeling between her legs and looking
at her most private parts. Melli could not bear the indignity and shifted
angrily against the ropes. She felt her knife slide against her back, and then
the sting of the blade as it cut into her skin. Terrified she might do more
damage to herself, she lay as still as the dead.

Alysha murmured
words of calming in her soft, faraway voice. Melli felt something smooth and
cool press gently against her sex. She saw the woman's lips move as if in
prayer. What was spoken had more weight than words. The air from Alysha's mouth
reached out toward. her, probing. Melli became afraid. She'd heard many tales
of sorcery, even seen it once herself, but this-so much less powerful than
Jack's drawing-seemed an unbearable intrusion. She shifted against the ropes,
suddenly not caring if her knife was revealed. Magic was inside of her; its
presence warming as it searched. Every fiber of her soul fought against it.
Every cell of her body felt violated.

Alysha mouthed a
few words and the force withdrew, becoming air once more upon her tongue.
"The hymen is intact," she said. "The girl is still a
virgin." As she stood up, her legs faltered and she was forced to steady
herself against the wall.

"Are you
sure?" asked Fiscel.

"Of course I
am," Alysha snapped. "The girl has a hymen as tough as old leather.
She will need quite a breaking."

"There will
be plenty of blood?"

"More than
usual."

"Good. She
will fetch a high price." Fiscel's smile was warm with anticipation.
"My southern beauty never lets me down. You have so many talents, my dear,
I don't know what I'd do without you." He poured a glass of nais and
handed it to the woman. "Why, your hand is shaking, Alysha. What is the
matter?"

Alysha looked
quickly toward Melli. "There is something about that girl, Fiscel,"
she whispered.

Melli was trying
very hard not to fall asleep, but she felt so weak. Her eyes had stopped
focusing and her thoughts had followed suit. Slowly, despite all her efforts,
her eyelids began to close.

"What do you
mean, my precious?" asked Fiscel.

"Her fate is
strong. It fought against the sorcery, nearly forcing it back upon me before I
was ready. And her womb. . ." Alysha shook her head.

"Her womb
waits for a child who will bring both war and peace."

Traff spat out the
wad of snatch. It was not a good blend, too bitter by far. He spat a few more
times for good measure. A man needs a clean mouth.

He watched the
shadowed cottage. The lights had gone out some time ago. The old woman would be
fast asleep by now. Still, he would wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure.
Surprise was as good a weapon as the keenest knife.

He passed the time
by grinding the chewed snatch into the snow with the heel of his boot. Perhaps
he might give up snatch all together. He'd heard that it rotted the teeth. In
the past he wouldn't have cared one way or another about rotted teeth. Bad
breath and toothache were for women and priests to fret over. But now he had
other things to consider-his pretty young bride-to-be for instance.

Lady Melliandra,
daughter of Lord Maybor and once betrothed to King Kylock, was to be his. Her
father had sold her to him, along with two hundred pieces of gold. The great
lord had struck a lame deal. He, Traff, had given away a little information,
nothing more. Lord Maybor, however, had given away his only daughter. The old
fool was in his dotage. So desperate had he been to hear about Baralis'
scheming that he'd lost his powers of judgment. And as a result, the delicious
Melli was his.

All he had to do
now was to find her.

That was what
brought him here tonight, to a small cottage set back from Harvell's eastern
road. A cottage that was owned by an old woman who was a pig farmer.

The old crow
deserved a beating just for the fact that she'd not turned her farm over to the
authorities like she was supposed to. An old widow woman had no business
running a farm, depriving a man of making a legitimate livelihood. She would be
hanged if the word got out-and make no mistake, the word would get out-only by
then she might be too stiff for a hanging.

Traff stepped out
from his hiding place in the bushes and made his way toward the cottage. His
blade was tucked in his belt and pressed against his thigh like a second man
hood. He drew the knife from its resting place and his body mourned the loss.
It was a fine knife, long and thin-bladed. A knife for fighting, or for
killing.

He approached the
cottage from behind, slipping between the barn and the sty. The smell of pigs
filled his nostrils, and Traff found himself wishing he still had a mouthful of
snatch, bad or otherwise. The pigs caught his scent and grunted nervously.

He fell under the
shadow of the cottage and made for the door. Pushing it gently, he tested its
strength: good hinges and a firm bolt. He moved away. Moving toward the front
of the building, he tried every window shutter until he found one with rusted
hinges. Breaking in was going to be noisy. Traff shrugged. The woman was old
and probably deaf. He shouldered into the shutter with all his strength. The
hinges cracked like kindling. The shutter fell into the cottage, taking the
linen curtain with it. It crashed against the floor. Wincing at the noise,
Traff climbed into the cottage.

Borc, but it was
dark! He stood for a moment allowing his eyes to grow used to the blackness. He
was in the kitchen. On the far side lay the door to the bedchamber. He adjusted
his grip on the knife and then made his way across the room. The door was not
bolted and swung back to his touch. In the darkness he could make out a white
figure on the bed. It took him a moment to realize that the old woman was
sitting up and that she had a knife in her hand.

"Don't come
any closer," she said. "I bought this knife last week, and I've a
hankering to test the blade."

Traff laughed. It
really, was quite absurd. Did the old crow have no idea just how ridiculous she
sounded? The woman made a quick movement and then he felt something tear into
his shoulder. The bitch had thrown the knife! Anger flared within Traff. He
crossed the room in one leap. Grabbing the woman by her scrawny neck, he
pressed his thumb into her throat. The feel of old flesh repulsed him. Blood
sprinkled onto the covers and the floor. His blood.

"Not so brave
now, old hag." Traff pushed his thumb against her windpipe. With his other
hand he performed a showy maneuver with his knife, making sure the blade caught
what little light was in the room. The woman's eyes glittered in unison with
the blade. Traff was beginning to feel more relaxed now that he was back in
charge. The wound on his shoulder didn't feel too deep. He had been wearing his
leathers and they would have taken some of the bite from the knife.

"Now then,
all I want you to do is answer a few questions for me. You'll be all right as
long as you tell me the truth." Traff's tone was that of a parent
admonishing a naughty child. "I've been talking to a friend of yours. He
told me that you had two visitors stay here about five weeks back. Is this
true?" Traff eased his grip on the woman's throat to give her a chance to
confirm what he was saying. The woman didn't as much as blink an eye. Traff
jabbed the haft of his blade into her chest. The woman coughed and spluttered.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said.