A Man Betrayed (44 page)

Panicking, knowing
she had only seconds, Melli searched for a convincing lie. It was too late for
backtracking.

Annoyed at her
hesitation, the duke dug his fingertips deeper into her cheeks.
"Tell
me,"
he hissed.

A knock sounded at
the door. The duke did not take his eyes off Melli for an instant. "Do not
disturb me," he called. "Your Grace," came a muffled voice,
"there is important news. A messenger has come from the court."

The duke swore and
pushed Melli back toward the fire. "Come," he cried, voice harsh and
impatient.

Even as she
struggled to find her footing, Melli breathed a sigh of relief. Her shin caught
against the grate. It was red-hot and she pinned her lips together to keep from
crying out. She hated him!

In walked two men.
Melli recognized one of them from the journey; the other still had his cloak
and leathers on. Neither of them as much as glanced at her.

"Your Grace,
Kylock has invaded Halcus."

"When did
this happen?"

"A week
ago," said the cloaked one. "Pigeons arrived at Bren today."

"What are his
numbers?"

"Two
battalions, with another following."

The duke clenched
his fists. "That is no border-keeping force. The man means to take more
than the River Nestor. Is there any news of the battle?"

"No news yet,
Your Grace. But Kylock had surprise on his side. The Halcus expected him to
wait until full spring." A small, dry laugh escaped from the duke's
throat. "Then the Halcus are fools." He started to pace about the
room. When he next spoke, it was more to himself than the two men. "Kylock
has moved quickly, his father has barely been dead a month. There wasn't enough
time for him to train an army, yet the fact that the Halcus are badly
undermanned will work in his favor." He addressed the messenger. "Who
in Bren knows about this?"

"No one
except the handlers, Lord Cravin, and myself, Your Grace."

The duke turned to
the second man. "I want you to ride back to Bren tonight. No one is to
know about this until I return."

"Yes, Your
Grace," said the man. He bowed and left the room.

"You,"
he said to the messenger, "will do me the favor of accompanying this lady
back to her room. Your news has given me much to think on."

The man bowed and
made his way toward Melli. He looked tired, but friendly, and he offered his
arm. The duke didn't even bother to look at her as she left.

Tavalisk was
sorting through his morning communications. The letter from He Who Is Most Holy
was hardly worth the parchment it was written on. His Holiness, Borc rot his
spineless soul, was becoming nervous about events in the north. He had heard
about the four-city force that had been sent out to protect southern trade, and
he thought it might be perceived as-how did he put it? The archbishop skimmed
the page:
"as a hostile act, sure to inflame tensions that are already
dangerously asmoulder."

Tavalisk dropped
the letter. His Holiness should keep his nose out of world affairs and stick to
what he knows best: praying and poetry. He should have had the courage to
excommunicate the Knights of Valdis years ago. It was nothing short of a
disgrace that they were allowed to worship the same God and the same savior.
Let them invent a God of their own, he thought. Though they were welcome to the
savior: Borc's legend grew shoddier by the day.

If
he
were
in His Holiness' position, he would have had the knights hounded as heretics
throughout the entire continent. All their lands would be annexed, their
business interests would be confiscated, and their leader would be burned at
the stake. Tyren was such a greasy little individual he would take to the flame
like a fatted calf.

Tavalisk settled
back in his chair and picked at the remains of his breakfast. Oh, to go back to
those glorious days when He Who Is Most Holy had wielded real power. Armies
marched on his orders and leaders waited upon his every word. Over the past
four hundred years the Church had declined like a decrepit old man. His
Holiness was the latest in a long line of weak-kneed, over-philosophizing,
underopinionated fools! Why, the only reason that he, Tavalisk, had power was
that he had the guts to take it. Before him the archbishop's seat at Rom had
been nothing but a heavily cushioned footstool. He had made it a throne.

If Marod's
Book
of Words was anything to go by, even the feeble remains of the Church were
in danger. There was little doubt that the line
The temples will
fall,
heralded the downfall of the Church. And, knowing that snake Baralis, it was
likely to happen sooner rather than later.

Despite the early
hour, Tavalisk poured himself a small measure of brandy. He could not allow the
northern empire to flourish. The Knights of Valdis would like nothing better
than to destroy the Church as it existed and appoint themselves as leaders of
the faith. Where would that leave him? On the streets, powerless. This was such
an alarming thought that the archbishop downed his drink in one. At least he
wouldn't be penniless. A certain treasure-filled mansion, in a discreet street
not a stone's throw away from where he sat, was proof of that. But wealth
without power was like food without salt: dull and unappetizing. No, he simply
couldn't allow it to happen. His Holiness was obviously going to be no help: he
was so busy keeping a middle course that he was becoming as thin and
predictable as the line he was treading. He would have to do it all himself.

Indeed, that was
his destiny. Tavalisk's hands brushed against the cover of Marod as an idea
occurred to him. Surely if he managed to save the Church, greater glory could
be his. He would become the ultimate defender of the Faith. The clergy would be
so grateful, his name so exalted, he could make a successful bid to take over
His Holiness' position.

Tavalisk, in his
excitement, took the
Book of
Words and brought it to his lips. Marod was
a genius. The rewards for following his predictions were greater than he ever
imagined. He could become leader of the Church!

A knock at the
door caused the archbishop to hastily place Marod on the table. It wouldn't do
for him to be caught kissing books--people might get the wrong idea and think
he had returned to his scholarly past! "Enter," he called.

In walked Gamil.
"Your Eminence, there is important news."

Tavalisk was still
basking in the glow of future glories, so he felt inclined to deal benignly
with his aide. "Is there, indeed? Then you'd better sit down and tell me
what it is."

Never once in his
ten years of devoted service had Gamil ever been asked to sit down in the
archbishop's presence. He looked decidedly wary. "Is Your Eminence feeling
well?"

"Never
better." The archbishop beamed. "Come along, Gamil. Don't stand there
all agape like a wife who's just caught her husband bedding another woman. Tell
me your news."

Gamil did not sit.
"I've just received word that our fourcity force has had an unfriendly
exchange with the knights."

"Were there
any casualties?" asked Tavalisk, rubbing his hands together in glee.

"Yes, Your
Eminence. On both sides. Two of our men lost their lives and twenty of the
knights. Valdis was outnumbered five to one."

"Excellent!
Excellent!" Tavalisk poured brandy into two glasses, one of which he
handed to his aide. "News like this is worth celebrating. Marls, Camlee,
and Toolay have now stuck their heads up so high that there's no going back.
Mark my words, Gamil, this will be the start of open conflict between the south
and Valdis. Tyren is probably seething as we speak-"

Gamil looked at
the drink the archbishop had just given him as if it were poison. "Forming
the four-city force was a very clever idea, Your Eminence."

"Not just
clever, Gamil, brilliant." Tavalisk made an encouraging gesture with his
hand, prompting his aide to drink up. "So, tell me, how did this
altercation happen?"

"Our scouts
spotted a small group of knights traveling just north of Camlee. They hurried
back to the camp, telling the other soldiers that they'd been fired at by the
knights. Apparently, all the men in the camp were so bored with sitting around
whittling wood all day and guarding the odd cargo train, that they seized upon
this information as a good excuse to go and slice some skin. By all accounts
there was quite a bloodbath. The heads of the dead knights were mounted on
stakes by the roadside. No one passing from the north to the south can fail to
see them."

Tavalisk smiled
widely. His Holiness certainly had cause to worry: there was nothing more
inflammatory than a head on a stake. Everything was coming together
beautifully, the battle lines were being drawn and the time was fast
approaching when everyone who counted would be forced to choose their side. The
events that had just occurred north of Camlee had practically forced the south
into declaring their position. They could hardly oppose the knights without
opposing Bren, and by implication, the kingdoms as well.

Or could they? At
this point, the south might argue that their quarrel was exclusively with the
knights. Tavalisk rubbed his chin. Perhaps matters required a little more help.

"Gamil, were
the knights guarding any cargo at the time of the attack?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence. Several wagonloads of fine cloth bound for Bren."

"Perfect. It
couldn't be better." The archbishop's mind raced across the possibilities
and reached for the best like r cherry-picker at the tree. "I think it's
time we started a rumor, Gamil."

"Another
plague, Your Eminence?"

"No.
Something more subtle than a plague." Tavalisk stood up and walked over to
the window. "We know that Catherie of Bren is due to be married soon to
King Ky lock."

"Yes."

"And what do
all brides need?"

"A
groom."

"No, you
fool! They need a wedding dress. What if the cargo that we seized had contained
the cloth that was due to be made into Catherine's bridal gown?"

"But the duke
of Bren would know otherwise, Your Eminence."

"That doesn't
matter, Gamil. Don't you see? If we claim to have seized their beloved
Catherine's wedding dress, it will be a humiliation for Bren regardless of
whether it's true or not. It's as good as burning their flag. Once word gets
out, it will look as if the south is opposed to the knights and Bren. The
seized wedding dress will become a thrown gauntlet."

"I will start
the rumor today, Your Eminence."

"Knowing you
as I do, Gamil, I'm sure half the city will know about it by sundown." The
archbishop waved a negligent dismissal. He felt too pleased with himself to
bother issuing a menial task or an insult. Besides, Gamil needed to conserve
all his energy for his tongue.

"So how big
is the garrison?" Jack's voice was blunt. In reality he was scared. He was
just beginning to realize the immensity and danger of the task he had sworn to
do.

He and Rovas were
sitting face-to-face across the kitchen table. The women had-gleft them alone,
muttering about herbs to be gathered.

"There's over
twenty score of soldiers stationed there full-time," said Rovas. "The
number increases depending on the time of year and where the trouble spots are.
At this point, everyone's eyes are to the west. Kylock's invasion has taken
them all by surprise."

"So they'll
be on their guard?"

Rovas gave him a
shrewd look. "Not stuck out here in the east, they won't. They'll be so
busy training and recruiting and putting edges on their blades that they
wouldn't even notice Borc himself arriving for his second coming."

Jack took a sip of
his ale to give himself time to think. Rovas was downplaying the dangers. He
couldn't really blame the man for doing so; after all, there was no way he
Would agree to steal into the garrison if he thought twenty score of soldiers
would be armed and waiting. Still, it gave Jack cause to be wary: what other
perils might Rovas choose to minimize or ignore? "How many men are set to
guard at night?"

"Outside
there are four pairs. One pair mounts the garrison, two guard the main gate,
and one guards the service entrance at the rear." The smuggler spoke with
assurance and Jack had no cause to doubt him.

"How are they
armed?"

"The ones on
the battlements have crossbows. All the others have spears and short
swords."

Jack nodded.
"What about inside?"

"That's more
difficult to say." Rovas pulled in his cheeks and made a slight sucking
sound. His face was red and peeling. Too much ale, sun, and wind had caused the
blood vessels to break on his nose. "I won't lie to you, Jack," he
said, endowing his deep voice with a measure of affection. "There could be
as many as ten pairs. And I can't say for certain where they'll be stationed.
They could be practically anywhere."

Jack wondered when
he had become so suspicious. To him, Rovas' attempt at disarming truthfulness
seemed calculated to win his trust. Strange to think that only a few months
earlier, when he was working as a baker's boy in Castle Harvell, he had taken
everyone on their word. Trust was now a thing of the past.

It was easy to
forget what Rovas really did for a living. He was a smuggler, a con artist, and
a thief. He preyed on people who were poor and hungry and sold them goods that
were an insult to their meager purses. Rovas liked to project an air of rakish
good humor, but he wasn't a rake at all. He was a villain.

He had tried to
force Tarissa to murder a man. The same man whose murder they now sat around
the table plotting. Rovas had found someone else to do his dirty work for him.
Jack shifted to the edge of his seat. He needed to be wary of every word that
left the smuggler's lips. "So what's the best way to gain entry?"