A Man Betrayed (55 page)

There was one
thing that was his alone, one advantage that he had tried to deny and ignore
for too long. Sorcery was in his blood. It was making him shake now; it had
made the stone break free from the ceiling. Already he had moved buildings and
people and changed the way things were. What else could he do? At the moment it
was a product of rage, called up in anger, dormant for months at a time; he
needed to control it. If he could command the power properly, no one would dare
take advantage of him again.

Jack clenched his
fists hard. Rovas had sent him running into a wall of dirt and he wasn't going
to get away with it. The guard said that the hanging was a week off. Good.

That would give
him plenty of time to plan his escape. He needed a few days to regain his
strength. Right now he doubted if he could stand, let alone make a run for it
or snatch a blade. More importantly than that, he needed the chance to practice
using his power. He would master the sorcery inside.

Ignoring the
protests of a bevy of muscles, Jack pulled himself up to a sitting position.
The wound in his chest reasserted its presence by racking his body with a deep
and stabbing pain. Jack fought against it, willing away the hurt. He had more
important things on his mind. The stone by his feet seemed the natural place to
start. He was going to make it move. Clearing his thoughts of all matters
except the stone, Jack began to concentrate upon its center. Slowly, he forced
his will against the surface, imagining he was pushing it with his mind.
Nothing. No flutter in his stomach, no pressure in his head. He tried again,
this time envisioning himself entering the stone and shifting it from within.
Not a single movement, no matter how hard he concentrated.

Disappointed, but
not really surprised, Jack shifted his position. He knew what he had to do
next. He flashed an image up in his mind: a picture of Rovas comforting
Tarissa, his large red hands resting gently upon her back as he leaned forward
to whisper lies in her ear. It was all the help Jack needed. Instantly, he felt
his saliva thicken with sorcery, felt his brain pressing against his skull.
There was a brief instant where he worked to focus the energy, and then the
stone shattered.into a thousand pieces. Fragments of stone shot against his
body like arrows and a halo of dust blew up from the floor.

The dust settled
to reveal a small mound of debris at the center. Jack felt sickened, not
triumphant. Tired to the point of collapse, he lay down again on the ground.
The shivering, which had never quite stopped from the first time, suddenly
became much worse. Raising his knees to his chest, he curled up in a ball to
keep warm. Weakness swept over his body like a cool breeze, and it wasn't long
before he fell into a fitful sleep, head resting close to what remained of the
stone.

Tawl was worried
about Nabber because he knew Nabber would be worried about him. He knew he
should not have left without a word to the young pocket, but he'd been given
little choice in the matter. One minute he was sitting in his room, greasing his
blade, and the next in walked the duke requesting that he accompany him on a
trip to the mountains. He couldn't refuse. He was oathbound to obey the duke at
all times. Of course, Nabber was nowhere to be found-only Borc himself knew
what that one got up to during daylight hours-and time was of the essence. A
team of horses was waiting in the courtyard and the duke was not a patient man.
A note was of little use, for the pocket couldn't read; the only thing he could
do was to leave behind as many of his belongings as possible, that way Nabber
could be certain he was intending to return.

Nabber was a
bright boy, too bright by far for his age, and Tawl had little doubt that his
resourcefulness would stretch as far as finding out where he had gone. Yet he
would be worried all the same. Tawl smiled as he thought of the boy. Nabber
considered himself to be his personal nursemaid; tending his ailments, watering
his ale, and monitoring his every move. Like a pesky fly, no amount of swiping
could make him go away. With loyalty like that he would make a fine knight-as
long as they kept him away from the gold!

It was a good
feeling to know that somewhere someone would be thinking of him. Nabber had
saved his life, walked by his side for hundreds of leagues, and never once
given up on him. Tawl didn't know what he'd done to deserve such friendship,
but he was glad with all his heart that he'd met Nabber that fateful day when
the
Fishy Few
landed back in Rorn. He had sworn an oath to the duke and
that would always come first, but he owed a great debt to Nabber and he would
be there if the boy ever needed him.

The problem was,
whilst he was in the mountains watching over the duke's latest dalliance,
Nabber was probably getting himself into all sort of mischief in Bren. The boy
had a genius for trouble. He'd probably be all right, though: he was resilient
as well as resourceful.

Tawl stood up and
stretched his aching muscles. All night spent on a hard bench had done them no
good. Still, it had been a long time since his biggest complaint was sore
muscles, and a wooden bench in a fine lodge was better than a blanket on the
ground. He was healing quickly: it was always the way; no matter how much he
misused his body, it never let him down. That at least he could be thankful
for.

Two physicians
came to the door. Tawl recognized them, so he let them pass. He wondered what
was so special about the woman inside the duke's chamber. Doctors, maids,
dressmakers, and priests: they had all been in to see her. "Watch over
her," the duke had said, not mentioning why, or for how long. Tawl never
questioned him once during the six-hour ride. As a knight he had learned to
respect orders and now, no longer a knight, orders were all that he had. They
gave structure, if not meaning, to his life. The duke was a worthy leader, a
military man who had fought in his own campaigns. To serve him was not such a
bad fate. Better than spending his days drinking himself senseless and his
nights fighting in the pits.

A serving woman
came up to him with a tray of food and drink. She handed it over and then
waited for him to take a taste. They had gone to a lot of trouble for him in
the kitchens: fine meats and cheeses and a pretty lady to bring them. He smiled
his thanks and the woman smiled back a proposition. Wide hips sent her skirt
flaring, and fine shoulders challenged the seams of her dress. "I'll be in
the kitchens if you need anything more, sir," she said.

He had gone
without lovemaking for too long. Now that his blood was free of ale and his
body free from pain, he felt the familiar need for passion, the desire to lose
himself in the curves and folds of a woman's body, and perhaps, if he was
lucky, forget his demons for a while. He spoke gently, "My lady, I would
see you later if I may." Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. It
smelled of butter and parsley.

"I will be
waiting," she said. Bowing deeply, she withdrew, hips swaying like only an
older woman's could, confident in the power of her charms. Tawl watched her
walk down the long corridor, admiring her all the way. A figure crossed the
woman's path and she dropped to the floor in a low curtsy. It could only be the
duke. Tawl stood and waited for him to approach.

"Well met, my
friend," said the duke, clasping his hand. "When I said you were to
watch over the lady, I didn't expect you to wait outside her door."

Tawl returned the
handclasp firmly and managed a wry smile. "Your Grace should know that I
take my orders seriously. Though I might have murdered the first man I saw with
a cushion-this bench is harder than stone."

The duke grinned,
but when he spoke his words were serious: "Tawl, I didn't bring you here
as a guard. I brought you here because I need someone I can trust." Gray
eyes regarded him coolly. "I think I can trust you."

Tawl met the gaze
full on. "I will not break my oath."

"I
know." The duke rested his hand on the carved door. "Inside here is a
lady who will soon find herself in a very dangerous position. People will want
to murder her. I will tell you more later when everything has been finalized,
but one thing is certain: she must be kept safe at all costs. Guards are of
little use except for show. Men with spears will not stop a determined
assassin. I need a man with initiative, someone who will be alert day and night
and who won't flinch at handling a sudden threat."

The duke paused
for a moment, assessing the effect his words were having on Tawl. "When I
watched you that night in the pit, I saw a man who was determined to win, no
matter what the cost. I also learned that you were a knight, so your skills and
loyalty are beyond question. I think you will protect the lady with your
life."

"I
will."

"I am well
satisfied," said the duke. He turned away from Tawl and ran his hand over
the carving of the hawk on the door, fingers feeling out the talons. "Of
course, protection takes many forms."

Tawl felt a shift
in the mood of the conversation, yet said nothing, preferring to let the duke
speak on.

"There will
be many people who will want to talk to the lady. People who will try and fill
her head with lies, or manipulate her thoughts. She must be kept away from such
influences. I want her totally isolated from the goings-on of the court. No one
must see her without my permission, and she must be told nothing of politics or
matters of state. She needs to be monitored closely at all times."

Tawl didn't like
the sound of this. "So you would have me the lady's keeper?"

"No,"
said the duke quickly, "I would have you her friend."

"I choose my
own friends, Your Grace."

"Then it is
only fitting that you meet the lady in question." The duke pushed against
the door and beckoned him forward.

They walked
through a large dining room and then into a dimly lit bedchamber. A thin,
dark-haired girl sat up in the bed. Her eyes were large and dark, and her chin
was as blunt as a spade.

"Tawl,"
said the duke, "may I present the Lady Melliandra."

Melli was not in a
good mood. She was heartily sick of being prodded and poked, and force-fed
curds and whey. Her father had been right to hate physicians; not content with
a patient being sick, they had to make them miserable as well. She wanted a leg
of beef-a whole one, barely roasted-a jug of decent claret, and a chamberpot
that didn't cut into her bottom like a knife.

Another thing she
didn't like was the constant comings and goings. Ever since she came around
yesterday, people had walked into her room as if the door, and the custom of
knocking upon it, simply didn't exist. Physicians physicianed her, priests
prayed for her, and dressmakers measured her: all united in their total
disregard for her privacy. To top it all off, no one would answer her
questions. No matter what she asked, they just smiled and nodded and said,
"We'll see." She had just worked herself up into a satisfying fit of
selfrighteous anger when in walked the duke.

There was someone
with him, a tall golden-haired man who looked like he'd stepped straight from a
legend. "Melliandra," said the duke, "I would like you to meet
my new champion, Tawl of the Lowlands."

The man bowed
graciously, his back broadening to a curve. "My lady."

Melli wasn't sure
how to react. This stranger before her didn't deserve to be the target of her
wrath. As he straightened up, she noticed there was a bandage around his chest
and a second one around his arm. His blue eyes met hers and what she saw there
destroyed her anger instantly. "I am pleased to meet you, Tawl," she
said.

"What's this,
Melliandra? Has the fall from the horse knocked the ire from your tongue?"
The' duke smiled. He made his way over to the window, drew back curtains and
shutters, and then turned to look at her. "You have lost color and
weight."

"And you,
sir, have lost none of your ability to insult a lady." Something was
niggling at Melli. She couldn't remember having told anyone at Bren her real
name, yet for the past day everyone had been calling her Melliandra, and
"Lady," at that! Perhaps Bailor was telling the truth about the duke
being in love, for people were treating her with new respect since the
accident. A touch of pride settled itself in Melli's brow. It was only fitting
that a man such as the duke should see her true worth, after all she was the
daughter of the greatest lord in the kingdoms. Obviously her breeding showed
through her present disguise.

"Leave us
now, Tawl," said the duke. "Go and take some rest. I will talk with
you later."

The golden-haired
man bowed a second time and made his way from the room. Melli noticed that he
didn't make a sound as he walked. As soon as the door was closed, she said,
"Why was it so important that I meet your champion? Is he one more person
to watch over me?"

"You flatter
yourself, Melliandra," said the duke, coming to sit on the bed. "But
not without reason. Yes, I would have him look after you." His lean, dark
face was unreadable, his eyes bright like a hawk's. "When I value
something highly, I make sure I keep it safe."

"So you value
me highly?" Melli felt a little nervous at the sudden change in the
conversation. The duke was so close she could smell him.

"I do."
He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

His touch was
rough, pleasing. Unnerved, she pulled away. "Why this sudden change of
heart? Last time we spoke I remember no such consideration."

"When I was
told you might die, I realized I didn't want to lose you." The duke spoke
smoothly, but the words didn't quite fit the man.

"Me, an
illegitimate daughter of an impoverished lord?" Abruptly, the duke stood
up. For the first time Melli noticed he wasn't swearing his sword. Strange, she
had never seen him without it before. It made her a little wary.