A Man Betrayed (49 page)

Nabber had quickly
scuttled nearer. He wanted to catch what was being said. He was barely feet
away, body pressed against a rotting timber, feet buried in a mound of ...
waste. Evil rats chewing at his toes, the smell of the abattoir on the breeze.
It was just like home. He could hear everything. The letter was from Bevlin,
and Tawl didn't want to look at it. Although the knight was adamant, Nabber felt
sure that he would pick it up once the Old Man's cronies were gone. Only he
didn't. Two minutes ago he'd walked away, leaving the letter unopened on the
ground.

It wasn't right.
There was no way that he, Nabber, friend of the great thieves and one-time disciple
of Swift, was going to leave that letter there on the street for any milkmaid
or barrow-boy to pick up at their leisure. No. It was private property. And if
Tawl didn't want it, then he certainly did.

A quick look left
and then right, a sharp sniff of the air, and then he waded through the waste
and onto the street. He went straight over to the letter and slipped it in his
tunic.

Strange, but in
all his life Nabber had never really considered himself a thief; pocketing was
more of a pastime than a crime, yet now, as he made his way back toward the
palace with the letter resting against his chest, he felt for the first time
that he'd taken something that wasn't his to take. He vowed he would never open
it. The letter belonged to Tawl, and it was his duty to keep it for him.

As soon as Rovas
dropped him off in the cart, Jack realized he had no idea how to carry a barrel
of ale. Wider than a man, it wouldn't rest well on his shoulder, and it proved
hard to get a decent grip if he held it at his chest. The sweat on his hands
didn't help, either. He was scared. Talking about murdering Vanly was one
thing, actually going through with it quite another. He was on the far side of
town, and according to Rovas the garrison lay half a league to the south.

Jack lifted the
barrel for the final time, dipping his head down and bringing it over his
shoulder. If he kept his torso bowed forward, he could keep it balanced on his
back. Rovas had filled it close to the brim. He could hear the ale sloshing
away as he walked. The momentum of the fluid worked against him, slowing him
down and causing his feet to hesitate as he stepped. He probably looked drunk.

After walking for
five minutes he felt as if he needed a drink. His back strained with the weight
and with the unnatural angle. The muscles in his arms were beginning to protest
at being held over his head for so long, and he'd exuded enough sweat to fill a
second barrel. The most annoying thing, however, was his hair: it had fallen
down in a wet tangle over his face and now he couldn't see where he was going.
Letting go of the ale was out of the question-if he put it down now he wasn't
entirely sure he'd be able to pick it up again-so he was forced to walk
watching his feet.

The night air was
cool, but not cold, and the full moon illuminated every step. Not a good night
for discreet getaways. Carrying the ale actually helped to calm Jack's nerves.
On the journey here his throat felt so dry that he couldn't manage a word to
Rovas, but now, forced to concentrate on bearing a load that weighed about as
much as Tarissa, but was a lot more awkward to handle, his mind was firmly on
the job in hand.

To lighten his
mood, Jack began to whistle a tune. He knew it was a mistake as soon as he
started, for the small low noise just made the night seem larger. He decided to
carry on anyway, at least till he got to the chorus.

A cartload of
people passed him; they were drunk and merry and laughed at his burden. Jack
smiled and bowed his back further. He was close to the garrison now.
Approaching from the north, he would come to the service entrance first. The
road became muddy, and two people on foot walked past him. They paid the man
with the barrel no heed. The dryness returned to Jack's throat as he fell under
the mooncast shadow of the fort.

The cartload of
people were applying for entrance. There were two guards armed with spears and
shortswords, just as Rovas said there would be. Everyone was laughing, guards
included. A hamper was unloaded from the cart and the lid was taken off for
inspection. The smell of roasted chicken hit Jack's nostrils. It made him sick.
His stomach was too tight for food. After rummaging in the hamper and picking
out a few morsels for themselves, the guards let the party through. They then
turned their attentions to Jack.

"What you got
there, boy?"

Jack swung the
barrel down from his shoulders and placed it on the ground, tap up, in front of
them. He brushed his hair back from his face and pointed at the barrel.

"What's the
matter with you?" sneered the second guard. "Cat got your
tongue?"

Jack's heart was
beating so wildly, he was sure the guards would hear it. He shook his head
violently, and then as an afterthought, bowed deeply to both men.

"He's
dumb," said the first guard. "Look's a bit simple."

"Aye, he does
that," agreed the companion. "His hair's right long, as well. Don't
remember seeing anyone with hair as long as that in town before. Where you
from, boy?"

Jack had no choice
but to point toward the town.

"You're not
going to get much out of him, Wesik. He's one arrow short of a full flight.
Probably been employed by Ottley at the tavern. He's always on the lookout for
cheap labor."

Jack nodded
vigorously. He was tempted to back this gesture up with a simple smile, but
opted for more nodding instead.

"You heard
what happened at the tavern last week, Grimpley," said Wesik, the second
guard. "A merchant got murdered in cold blood, throat slit and all. Who's
to say it wasn't young long-hair here?"

"Leave it
out, Wesik. This boy ain't no killer. The muscles in those arms were shaped by
shifting barrels, not bodies."

Jack nodded again.
He was getting tired of acting stupid. He would have like to punch both men in
the faceWesik first.

"All right,
all right. Have it your own way. What's in the barrel, boy? From the looks of
that tap, it's Isro Amber." Jack nodded and Wesik continued. "Well,
don't just stand there, pour us a cup."

Jack didn't have
the slightest idea how to work the tap. "Come on, come on. Quick about
it."

As he reached
toward the tap, Jack's hands were shaking uncontrollably. Under his breath he
cursed Rovas for not showing him how to use it. The tap was tooled from brass
and had a bolt, a lever, and a screw protruding from it. He opted for the lever
first and then began to turn the screw. Both guards hovered over him, watching
every move. Jack didn't realize how much he was sweating until he brushed his
hand against his forehead: it came back soaking wet. With the screw loosened
sufficiently to let the ale pass through the tap, Jack removed the bolt.
Nothing.

"What are you
playing at, boy?" demanded Wesik. Jack felt as if his heart was about to
burst. Panicking, he started to pull, twist and flip indiscriminately,
desperate to get the ale to flow.

Wesik swung his
boot into the back of Jack's head. "Damn fool!"

Pain exploded in
Jack's skull. He was sent forward against the barrel, chin catching against the
metal tap.

"Leave the
boy be, Wesik," said Grimpley, placing a restraining arm on his companion.
"There's ladies coming." Jack tasted blood in his mouth. Looking up,
he saw three women approaching on foot.

"You armed,
boy?" asked Wesik, eyes upon the women. Jack shook his head.

Grimpley ran his
spear point along Jack's tunic and down his legs, prodding every few inches to
test for metal. "There's nothing on him."

Wesik crouched
down beside Jack and grabbed the collar of his undershirt. "Listen to me,
boy," he said, his voice a slow, threatening drawl. "I'm going to
give you fifteen minutes. If you're not out of here by then, I'm going to come
looking for you." Slivers of chicken skin were caught between his teeth.
He twisted Jack's collar. "Have you got that?"

Jack nodded.

"Good, now
get yourself out of my sight."

Jack scrambled up,
tilted the barrel a fraction, and heaved it toward his chest. It seemed twice
as heavy as he remembered. His blood ran onto the wood. The guards let him
through the gate and into the garrison. Wesik waited until he had cleared the
steps and then said, "Fifteen minutes, boy, then I come looking."

Jack rounded the
first corner he came to. He dropped the barrel on the floor, not caring how it
landed. His head was reeling, his hands were shaking, and blood was spilling
from his mouth. Fifteen minutes. He had no time to waste; he had to break open
the barrel.

Footsteps followed
by whispering voices. It was the three women at the gate. They walked past Jack
as if he didn't exist. Looking around, he saw he was in a badly lit corner of
the courtyard. In the distance, two men were playing dice against a wall. They
were guards: spears rested in the dirt along with two flat ale skins. To the
right was a large, well-lit building; the shutters were open and it was full of
people drinking and toasting. Probably the mess hall. A second, smaller
structure leaned against it for support: the kitchens.

What to do next?
Jack had read stories about heroes, and without exception they always knew what
they were going to do and how they were going to do it. He didn't have a clue.
Rovas had said it would be easy to find a bar or a pick to pry the barrel open,
but Jack had no idea how he'd get his hands on anything like that. One of the
guards' spears would do the job, but to try and take it from them would be
madness. Maybe there would be something in the kitchens. He'd try there.

With the decision taken,
Jack wasted no time. He rolled the ale barrel into the deep shadows of the
corner and then slunk along the west wall until he came to the kitchen. The
dicing guards never noticed his passing. Quickly he flitted around the side of
the kitchen wall and through the narrow alleyway to the rear. Smells of
roasting meat wafted from the doorway. The sound of laughing and singing came
from the mess hall, and the sound of squabbling and shouting came from the
kitchens.

Staying close to
the wall and its concealing shadows, Jack inspected the kitchen courtyard. In
the corner was a butchering block. His eyes searched for the gleam of an ax.

A man in an apron
stepped out from the doorway. Jack held his breath as he walked toward the very
wall he was standing against. Sweat trickled down his back. The man came to
halt about two horses' length from him. The moon picked that moment to
disappear behind a cloud. Jack gave silent thanks to Borc. Lifting up his
apron, the man fished around with the lower ties of his tunic and pulled out
his manhood. He proceeded to piss against the wall. He hummed a tune whilst
doing his business. Jack's right leg was beginning to cramp; he fought the
desire to shift his weight onto his left side. He couldn't afford to move an
inch.

The man finished
relieving himself, looked at his manhood with pride, and then stuffed it back
into his tunic. He paused a moment, as if he were listening for something, and
then turned and walked back to the kitchens. Heaving a huge sigh of relief,
Jack bent down to stretch his cramping muscle. The smell of urine met his
nostrils.

He was running out
of time. Dropping down on all fours, he began to crawl across the yard to the
butcher's block. He couldn't see an ax from where he was, but there could still
be something useful around the other side of the huge chunk of timber.

Jack crawled with
a limp, his muscle still cramping. He knew he probably looked stupid, but that
didn't matter: getting the barrel open as soon as possible was all that
counted.

The ground was
muddy, yet it hadn't rained for several days. It was too dark to tell, but Jack
guessed it was blood that soaked the ground around the block.

Luck was with him.
At the back of the block was a meat hook. It wasn't as good as an ax, but it
would do. Hooking it onto his belt, Jack crawled back to the kitchen wall.

Now came the
dangerous part: he couldn't risk anyone seeing him, not now with mud and blood
smeared across his tunic. The two guards had finished dicing. One was drinking
from a third skin, the other was inspecting the point of his spear. Jack
emerged from the alley and made for the wall. The moon appeared from behind the
clouds. How long had he been? Five minutes? Ten? It was impossible to say. One
thing was sure: he couldn't afford to wait for the moon to disappear again.
Back brushing against the wall, Jack stepped sideways along its length.
Everything was going well, till he stumbled against a tree root that had
somehow forced its way under the wall. Both guards looked up. Jack froze. The guard
with the spear began to walk toward the wall. Jack prayed he was hidden by the
shadow. A voice called out. "Leave it, Bornis. It's only rats. Come and
have a sup of ale before I finish the whole skin on my own." The guard
hesitated a second and then returned to his companion.

Jack forced
himself to count to a hundred before moving again. Time was getting crucial.

He reached the ale
barrel with no further incidents. The corner was nice and dark, but just to
make safe, Jack rolled the barrel into the recess behind the gate. No one could
see him now-though the gate guards might hear him if he wasn't careful.
Grasping the hook, he worked the tip between two of the planks. Why wouldn't
his hands stop shaking? Slowly he began to crack the timber. Gently, gently,
moving the hook back and forth, working it deeper into the join. There was a
splintering sound and the hook became jammed in place. Jack grasped the handle
firmly and swung it down against the barrel. Crack! The barrel opened. Ale
gushed out at his feet. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever smelled in
his life.