A Man Betrayed (24 page)

Jack could feel
the smuggler's will upon him, encouraging him to laugh along. He obliged, but
not because he found the joke amusing.

The laughter died
as abruptly as it started. Rovas placed a paternal hand upon Jack's arm.
"Listen, my friend. You were right when you said Tarissa wasn't telling
you the truth. But don't blame her; she spoke only to spare your
feelings." Rovas took a deep breath, drawing the darkness of night into
his lungs. "The girl was raped and then beaten. When Tarissa found her,
her head had been cut off." One final squeeze of his arm, and Rovas was
off, back to the cottage.

The owl called
again. Jack barely heard its cry. He leaned against the wall and wept.

Baralis walked
over to the window. He unlatched the shutter and gazed upon the Great Lake. The
northern wall of the duke's palace rose from water, not from soil. Early
morning mist robbed the lake's surface of its gleam and stole both scale and
grandeur from the view. The worst of the mist's sins, however, was the damp.

Baralis rubbed his
hands. They ached with a pain so biting he wished he could cut them off. He
considered going to the head of the duke's household and demanding that his
rooms be changed for ones with a more southerly position. He decided against
it. It would be perceived as a sign of weakness and the duke, who was both
physically and mentally strong, might use the knowledge to his advantage.
Better to suffer than to be thought a weakling.

He called for
Crope to lay out his robes of state and bring a shine to his chain of office.
Maybor was right, prince's envoy was now a worthless title. It was time to be
known as king's chancellor.

The welcoming
feast was to be held tonight. The duke had been thoughtful in delaying it a day
to give the weary travelers time to rest. Baralis' lip curled at the breach.
Canceling the feast had been an act of caution, not courtesy. The good duke
would spend today seeing how Bren took the news of Kylock's recent elevation.
Only when he had assured himself that there was still enough support for the
match would he give the order to his staff.

The Hawk still
wanted his prey. Oh, he called a fine warning, but Baralis could tell the
difference between genuine reluctance and merely the show of it. The duke
needed an alliance with the kingdoms; not only did he have no male heir, but
the city consumed grain and timber at such a rate that it could no longer
support itself. By allying with the knights he was courting trouble in the
south, and by annexing bordering towns and villages he was courting trouble in
the north. To top it all off, he wanted to be named a king. An alliance with
the kingdoms would bring wealth, might, and titles his way.

The duke might not
be pleased that Kylock now had sovereignty, but he wouldn't let that
displeasure spoil the match. It just suited him to pretend that it would.

Baralis made his
way down toward the center of the palace. His steps were slow and he paused
many times to admire the skill of the masons, who had managed to make walls so
thick seem so graceful, Less than a year from now it would be
he,
not
the duke, who presided over this domain. Even now, as he descended the stairs
to greet his host, Crope was above in his rooms, unpacking the poisons that
would kill him.

No sudden and
suspicious end for the Hawk. Soon after the marriage of Catherine and Kylock
was consummated, the duke would start to complain of a slight biliousness of
the gut. Months would pass and the duke's ailment would gradually worsen. There
would be cramps and vomiting and then blood in the urine. By this time poison
would be suspected and the duke would eat nothing that had not been tested.
'Twould be too late. The poison-a drink shared in celebration with the king's
chancellor to mark the night his daughter was bedded-would have gnawed so
deeply into stomach and liver that nothing but Borc's grace could save him.

He had Tavalisk to
thank for the poison. The information he'd gleaned from the archbishop's
library was well worth the price of the loan. What was one war, if it helped
him win another, more glorious, one?

The poison was as
subtle as the silken rugs of Isro and as deadly as their blades. One drink was
enough: it settled in the gut and gradually corrupted the tissue that cradled
it.

The sharp taste
would be a problem, but by choosing to administer it on a night of celebration,
Baralis was hoping to pass it off as a traditional bridal drink, complete with
exotic herbs and spices.

That was all in
the future, though; for the time being he needed to concentrate on finalizing
the betrothal. It had been foolish of him to challenge the duke yesterday-Maybor's
stupidity had been catching. He had to ingratiate himself with the duke and his
court. There were worries to be allayed and problems to be smoothed over, and
when all else failed there were bribes to be given.

Baralis reached
the magnificent visitors gallery. Domed ceilings were currently the latest
fashion in the south, and the duke's palace boasted the only one in the north.
Voices floated across its lofty expanse. There was no mistaking the
rough-barrel sound of Maybor.

"So you see,
Your Grace, Kylock is planning to finish the war once and for all."

"Indeed, Lord
Maybor," came the duke's low and deceptively smooth voice. "I am
gratified to hear it."

Baralis crossed
the tiled floor with the speed of a panther. He ignored Maybor and bowed to the
duke. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Lord
Baralis, I trust you slept well?" The duke didn't wait for an answer.
"My steward felt that the north wing might be a little damp. I told him
only you could be the judge of that."

"My rooms are
more than satisfactory."

"Good,"
said the duke. "The king's envoy has just been telling me of Kylock's wish
that the war with the Halcus be won as soon as possible."

"He'll be
planning to send more troops to the border," chipped in Maybor.

Baralis felt hate
so potent it nearly turned to sorcery on his lips. He took a calming breath to
control himself. Not since adolescence had he come so close to drawing out of
sheer emotion. Maybor was acting like a malicious fiend; he was well aware that
the slightest hint of aggression from Kylock would endanger the match. Not only
that, the man was inventing details of his own! He didn't have the slightest
idea whether or not Kylock intended to send more troops to the front. To make
matters worse, here was the duke picking the man's brains like a glutton at a
feast and flattering him all the while by calling him king's envoy!

"As king's
chancellor," said Baralis, "I will be the first to know when Kylock
decides to move against the Halcus." Time to play Maybor at his own game.
If lies were called for, let no one find him wanting. "Kylock begged me to
assure Your Grace that although, as Lord Maybor has just stated, he wishes to
win the war, he will take no action until the marriage vows have been spoken."

Maybor's mouth
opened in protest but, probably unable to find a suitably diplomatic way of
contradicting him, he closed it again.

The duke did not
look pleased. "As you gentlemen seem to be having some difficulty agreeing
on an official version of Kylock's policies," he said, "I think I
will leave you alone and let you fight it out amongst yourselves." With
that the duke bowed smartly and left.

Baralis and Maybor
stared at each other until the sound of the duke's footsteps receded to nothing
more than a distant flapping.

Maybor waggled his
finger and tutted. "Been leading His Grace astray, I see," he said.
"I considered it my duty as king's envoy to put him straight."

This was too much
for Baralis. The drawing was on his tongue in an instant. It slivered through the
air with the force of his intent. A second later Maybor was doubled up in pain.
"If you ever,
ever,
make me look a fool again," hissed Baralis
to the curve of the man's back, "I swear that I will smite you down where
you stand." Satisfied that his threat had been heeded, Baralis withdrew
the sorcery.

A servant walked
past and glanced their way. Maybor straightened up, his breathing quick and
strained, his face purple. "You
will regret this day in hell, "
he
rasped.

Baralis almost
admired the way the great lord mastered his pain by walking away with head held
high.

The drawing had
been a warning blow, nothing more. It was never wise to draw directly against
another. There was always a chance that a man's will could interfere, causing
the power to snap back with the momentum of a strung bow. Sorcerers had died
that way. Some drawings could be easily done: a compulsion upon the muscles to
prevent them from contracting, a delving into the mind to search for answers, a
survey of the tissue to find diseases. But they were all instances that caused
no harm to the body, their effects purely temporary. If one wanted a man dead
it was far wiser, and safer, to use a method other than sorcery to kill him.

Sorcery served
better as accomplice than assassin. Winter's Eve had been the exception. When
the flash of a blade had warned of immediate danger, learning gave way to
instinct-and Baralis had paid the price for it. Dumb creatures were a lot
easier to harm, though there was danger even then. Drawing himself into Maybor's
horse had been a risk. Sorcery acted like an infection: it triggered the body's
natural defenses. Animals, particularly large ones, had been known to fight off
drawings. During his time in the Far South, Baralis once watched a man die who
was trying to cause harm to a bear.

He had traveled to
Hanatta a month after his mother's funeral. The small farming community where
he'd lived hadn't suspected that he was responsible for her death. They shook
their heads and called it a natural miscarriage. His masters had known, though.
Her corpse stank of sorcery. But what could they do? He was a child who had
made a childish mistake. They wanted to be rid of him all the same. So they
coated their desire in a layer of concern:
"We can teach you no more,
Baralis, your skills are beyond us. In the Far South there is much to learn.
"
They hoped he would never come back.

Thirteen, he was.
Sent on a journey across the drylands and then over the mountains and into the
tropics. He'd traveled with a pilgrimage of knights and priests. A week before
they reached Hanatta, he murdered a man. This time with intent. Rain beat down
upon leather hides, but that was not what woke him. A man's hand reaching for
the smoothness of thigh beneath the coarseness of blanket did. The dagger, a parting
gift from his father, slid into the man's belly like a marker into a barrel of
ale. Sorcery honed the blade, but his hand held the haft.

The next morning
they found him: fast asleep with a dead man at his side. The air was so humid
that the blood was still wet on his thighs.

For the second
time that year he was pronounced free of guilt. Who would condemn a boy for
taking measure against such an act? Just like his masters, the pilgrims
couldn't wait to be rid of him.

Hanatta was a city
so foreign, so completely different from anything he'd ever known, that it
scared and thrilled in one. People so striking that to look at them was a joy,
jostling past others so disfigured that Baralis wondered how they survived. He
soon found the man to whom the letter of introduction was addressed. He'd read
the letter hundreds of miles earlier. It was an unmistakable warning: ...
Baralis
is brilliant, yet needs to be taught kindness and humanity, else he turn into
something that we all might regret.

The masters at Leiss
had badly miscalculated. The man they sent him to was concerned with ability,
nothing else. Moral niceties were pushed aside in the pursuit of knowledge.
Four glorious years of experimentation and discovery followed. There was
nothing they didn't try. No drawing was too heinous, no ritual too bloody, no
animal too valuable to lose.

The sorcery of the
Far South was different from that of Leiss. More subtle, less reliant on
potions and physical strength, and infinitely more sophisticated. He learned
how to make creatures his own, and perfected the skill of entering and then
searching the body. Looking back now, he realized that the manuscript at Leiss
which contained the means of his mother's death had probably come from Hanatta.
Danger was a constant companion. His hands suffered their first disfigurement
when he laid them upon an oxen and tried to get her to drop her calf It was
before her time and she fought the compulsion with all her strength. Nature was
on her side. The thread broke, and before he knew it his hands were burning.
The energy from the drawing demanded an outlet. His flesh bore the scars to
this day,

Still, it was
nothing compared to what he saw later in an open air bear-baiting ring close to
the meat market. Bearbaiting could be seen on every street corner in Hanatta.
It was the city's favorite pastime, and fortunes were won or lost on the
performance of a hound. Baralis enjoyed the spectacle of blood and carnage. He
liked watching the faces of the spectators as the dogs harried the bear. This
night the crowd was anxious; high on nais and a week of fasting, they were
eager for excitement.

The hounds
belonged to a man of great wealth and importance. The collars around their
necks were beaten gold. They were inbred for carnage: thick-necked, strong-jawed,
with teeth that gripped till death. Loosed into the enclosure, they drew
circles about the bear, working together to agitate and confuse.

All went well at
first. One of the hounds drew close, distracting the bear while the other
approached from the side. The beast let out a mighty squeal as the hound's
teeth sank into the flesh of its foreleg. The bear raised up on its hind legs
and the dog left the ground. Wild with frenzy, it swung its mighty paws in a
half-circle and the dog lost its grip. The sheer force of the bear's momentum
sent the hound flying to the far side of the enclosure. The crack of its skull
was clearly heard. One dog left and its wealthy owner was getting nervous.