A Man Betrayed (66 page)

"I think the
deal has already been struck, Your Eminence. Just this morning I received a
report from Camlee, telling of forty score of knights passing through on their way
up north."

"And our
four-city force let them pass?"

"We had
little choice, Your Eminence. Our forces were spread out and there were too
many to attack."

"Hmm."
Tavalisk began plucking at a third artichoke. "Were they well armed?"

Gamil nodded.
"War horses, full armor, steeled to the hilt."

"So by the
looks of things they were heading for a battle?"

"It would
appear so, Your Eminence."

Reaching the
heart, Tavalisk pounded it to a pulp with his fist. "It seems that the
newly crowned king is full of surprises. First the invasion and now a secret
treaty with Tyren. Young Kylock is turning out to be quite the dark
horse."

"What does
Your Eminence intend to do about this?"

"Well,"
said Tavalisk, scraping the pulp from his hand, "making the document
public will do little good. It's notsigned, so therefore it's worthless-Kylock
will simply deny he ever sent it." He poured himself a glass of wine.
"However, it would be interesting to see the letter fall into the duke of
Bren's hands. I'm willing to make a bet he knows nothing of this alliance, and
once he learns of it. . ." Tavalisk shook his head ". . . who knows
what he'll do."

"It certainly
puts him in a difficult position, Your Eminence. He is a well-known supporter
of the knighthood and everyone will come to the conclusion he asked Tyren to
help Kylock."

"Undoubtedly
you are right, Gamil. When this news comes to light, the duke of Bren will look
like he's secretly working to bring Halcus to its knees." Tavalisk took a
long gulp of wine. He was beginning to feel rather excited. "Annis and
Highwall won't like this one bit. They'll take it as proof that the duke is
planning a grand northern empire: Bren, the kingdoms, Halcus. It's only a
matter of time before their names will be added to the list."

"Annis and Highwall
are no longer arming in secret, Your Eminence. They have both taken to parading
their soldiers in the city streets for all and sundry to see. Just last week we
intercepted a cargo bound for Highwall: eight covered wagons stocked with
resin, sulfur, and quicklime."

The archbishop
smiled. "The stuff of siege warfare," he said. "How interesting.
I hope we let them pass?"

"Only after
sufficient toll had been taken, Your Eminence."

"Toll?"
The archbishop raised his glass to his lips only to find it empty. Had he drunk
that much already?

"A wagon's
worth of the three. In the correct proportions, no less. The merchant seemed
not to mind. He said more was on its way."

"Is it
indeed? Highwall seems intent on stocking up for a war." Tavalisk ran his
finger over the rim of the glass. "Mind you they have good reason to be,
trapped as they are between Halcus and Bren."

"If this
letter were signed, Your Eminence, it would be enough to start a major
war."

"Oh, one will
start anyway, Gamil. With Tyren's help, Kylock will make it through to the
capital. The knighthood have had men in Helch for over five years
now-supposedly negotiating peace, if I remember correctly. Anyway, after all
that time they are bound to know the castle's defenses like the backs of their
hands. And Tyren will certainly be feeding Kylock information along with
manpower." Tavalisk's hand slipped on the glass and it fell to the tiled
floor, smashing soundly.

Without a word of
encouragement, Gamil came forward, knelt down, and began to pick up the glass
around the archbishop's feet. The sight of Gamil's arched back was too tempting
for Tavalisk to resist, and he raised his feet up off the ground and brought
them to rest on his aide's back. "All things considered, young Kylock has
made a very shrewd move, bedding down with Tyren. On the other hand, of course,
Tyren himself may not have been so shrewd. He's got himself involved with a
cause that is anything but noble: women and children being slaughtered, towns
being razed to the ground. At some point the knights are going to question the
integrity of their leader."

"But the
knights are sworn to obey Tyren, Your Eminence," said the footstool. Gamil
was forced to stay, kneeling down like a dog, until the archbishop removed his
feet. "It's one of the founding principles of Valdis."

"If I needed
a lesson in history, Gamil, I would call a scholar, not a servant." The
archbishop dug his heels into Gamil's back. "Tyren has made mercenaries
out of his knights, selling their services first to Bren and now to the
kingdoms." Tavalisk shook his head. "Founding principles aside,
there'll be people in Valdis who aren't happy with the way things are going,
and it won't be long before they make their displeasure known. No one makes
more noise than the morally self-righteous."

"Perhaps
Kylock has promised them converts, Your Eminence."

The archbishop
took his feet from his aide's back. Gamil had actually said something
intelligent. "You mean: `Fight for us and if we win, we'll all follow
Valdis' fanaticism'?"

Gamil nodded and
stood up. "Fanaticism is a strong word, though, Your Eminence. Valdis'
beliefs are, for the most part, almost identical to ours. They are just more
zealous, that's all."

"Really,
Gamil, theology and history in one day. I think you missed your calling."

"I confess,
Your Eminence, that scholarship has always interested me."

"No, not a
scholar, Gamil. I was thinking more of a town crier, as they're famous for
shouting out news that everyone already knows." Tavalisk smiled sweetly at
his aide. "Time you were on your way, Gamil. Try and find out if there's
any truth in the theory that Tyren is angling for religious control in the
north. And send the letter on to the duke of Bren. Use your swiftest messenger.
No, on second thoughts, tie it to a bird. Speed is of the essence."

"A dove will
not be large enough, Your Eminence." The archbishop sighed heavily.
"I will follow you down later and put a compulsion on an eagle. It will
ruin me for this evening, though. I'll be far too tired to bless the seven sacred
strangers."

"Perhaps you
could just bless two or three of them, instead."

Gamil was becoming
a little impertinent. The ritual of the seven sacred strangers had been
performed in Rorn for hundreds of years. Once a year the city gates were closed
from midday to midnight. When they were opened, the first seven foreigners to
pass through them were blessed by the archbishop, bathed in holy water by
nubile virgins, and then given seven gold pieces by the doddering old duke
himself. It was more of a commercial than a religious ritual, as it was
designed to promote Rom as a city that welcomed foreign trade and foreign
money.

Widely
popular-probably due to the presence of the wet and scantily clad virgins-it
was looked forward to for months. Every child ate seven cherries, every man
drank seven glasses of wine, and every woman had seven bracelets jangling about
her wrist. For Gamil to suggest that he should bless only two or three
strangers was nothing short of blasphemy.

"Pay the old
crow in the kitchens to put the compulsion on the bird, Gamil. I will not be
doing it myself." Public ceremonies were too important to miss,
particularly now, when he needed the support of the masses more than ever. If
war was coming, the people of Rom must trust him enough to let him take the
lead. Besides, using sorcery was always a risk: one could never tell when one's
drawing was being monitored. All in all, it was far better to have someone else
do the job: the blame could be more easily shifted that way.

"Is there
anything else, Your Eminence?"

The archbishop
regarded his aide coolly. "Since you have treated me to so many lessons
today, Gamil, I think it's time I taught you one in return. It's called the
lesson of the presumptuous servant."

Jack was learning
the art of blocking everything out. He was aware of the sensations of pain,
exhaustion, hunger, and thirst, but only dimly, as if he was experiencing them
in a dream. In fact he felt almost drunk. But not in a light-headed, dizzy sort
of way, more a heavy-headed, heavy-footed sort of way. The sensation reminded
him of the times he'd been caught drinking by Master Frallit. Too much ale
followed by a sound thrashing and an earful of insults did strange things to a
boy's mind. Not to mention his body.

Jack smiled to
himself. He felt almost nostalgic about those beatings now. Castle Harvell
existed in his memory as a safe and cherished haven where worries were purely
childish and life was simple if a little dull.

Right about now
dull seemed pretty appealing. The rain had started up again, lashing through
the air in sharp, angry sheets. The wind whipped low around his ankles like a
small and pesky dog, and the air was cold as spring could make it. A night for
firesides, not adventures.

Jack had been
walking for hours now. The two hills, for so long in front of him, were now
casting shadows on his back. The ground underfoot was beginning to level off
and, without recognizing as much as a bush or a tree, he knew he was drawing
closer to the cottage.

It was dark. The
trees, the hills, the clouds, and the rain all threw their pennies into the
pit. He could see his feet beneath him, spot trees before he walked into them,
but everything else was lost in darkness. Step after step he took blindly.
Singing helped. Frallit had taught him many baking songs; some were bawdy
ballads of master bakers slipping love potions into their pies, a few were
actual recipes-the rhyme making them easier to remember-and others were slow,
methodical tunes designed to knead bread by. Jack liked the kneading songs the
best. Singing them now, whilst he was alone and in the dark, helped to keep his
spirits up. They acted like a talisman, carrying with them all the good
memories of the past.

I bake a little
slowly, 'cos I'm not a clever man
I knead all morning and I sleep when I can
I'm up all night to keep the oven hot
But I always pause once a day
No matter what my masters say
And count my blessings for what I've got.

Jack's steps
matched the meter of the words, just as his hands once had. After ten verses,
even the toughest dough would bake up to a fine crust. After eleven verses,
Jack was usually overcome by a fit of yawning: it wasn't the most lively of
songs. But it was simple and honest, and love of baking was written into every
line. For the moment it was just what he needed: something familiar and
methodical to keep his mind from the pain and his feet stepping one in front of
the other.

Abruptly the
ground dipped under him. He threw out his leg to catch the firmness of earth.
His foot encountered the wet slipperiness of mud and slid downward, throwing
his body off balance. Grasping in the dark, he found nothing to break his fall.
Roots and twigs tore at his legs and the mud carried him down the slope,
sending him into the darkness beneath. A thorned branch slashed against his
cheek. His knee crashed against something hard and jagged. Feet scrambling in
the mud, he hurtled forward. Something white glimmered ahead.
Rocks!
was
the last thought he had.

The rain
stopping
was what woke him. The constant pitterpatter was an accompaniment to his
dream, and when it no longer beat against his cheek, the dream turned nasty,
presenting him with a sudden, sharp drop. His body jerked convulsively and his
eyes opened. Jack was looking at the sky. Gray, cloudy, close to the ground, it
spoke of more rain to come.

He was lying on a
bed of mud-covered rocks. His arms and legs were as stiff as broom handles.
Raising up his hand, he cautiously felt the back of his head, near his neck.

"Aagh!"
Something large and tender as a plover's egg did not want to be touched.
Gingerly, he felt around the lump. His hair was stiff and matted. It could be
dried mud, he thought, but more likely it was blood. Bringing his hand forward,
he grazed his fingers against his cheek. A neat line of scabbed flesh rose
above his skin, two days worth of stubble surrounding it like thorns.

Jack sat up.
Water, which had been pooling in the dip of his belly, ran down his thighs and
onto the rocks. He now knew the meaning of being soaked to the bone. His clothes
were plastered against his body, his fingers were swollen like sausages, and
his feet were swimming in his shoes. As if the action of sitting up had forced
his senses into action, Jack felt suddenly cold. He began to shiver, and try as
he might he couldn't seem to stop himself.

He had to get his
blood pumping. Bracing his body, he forced himself to his feet. A wave of
dizziness threatened to bring him straight down again, but Jack refused to give
in to it.

Whereas sitting up
had made him realize how cold he was, standing up made him feel the pain.
Chest, head, legs, knees, all ached with vicious delight. Jack had once heard a
physician say that it was impossible to feel more than one source of pain at
any given time. The man was a fool.

A peculiar dryness
tickled at his throat, and when he recognized what it was he burst out
laughing. He was thirsty! Here, surrounded by dripping rainwater, damp air, and
wet clothes, with the rain newly stopped and more on its way, he was actually
feeling thirsty. It was really quite ridiculous. When the sound of his laughter
died away, another sound took its place: water running then splashing against
rocks. It was so loud, he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. It seemed
his senses were coming alive in stages and hearing was obviously last on the
list. Directly ahead lay a thick copse of trees. Turning around he noticed that
the rocks to the far left were bubbling with falling water. He scrambled over
toward them, feet slipping in the mud. A large boulder blocked his path to the
water and he was forced to clamber over it.