A Man Betrayed (68 page)

Jack lay flat on
the ground. His legs and stomach were mired deep in the mud. It had been
drizzling steadily for the last hour and he was soaked from head to foot. He
barely registered the cold and the rain. He was watching Rovas' cottage.

The heavy clouds
had forced the night's hand, making it come earlier than spring usually
allowed. Lanterns had been lit in the cottage; Jack could see their warm glow
escaping through knotholes in the shutters. The fire was burning well, too, as
hearty puffs of smoke came bellowing from the chimney. All in all it was a heartwarming
sight. A cozy home where ivy formed a living frame around the door and where
the whitewash shone a welcome for its master.

Jack spat out a
mouthful of bile. He swung his head around and scanned the road to the left.
Still no sign of Rovas.

How long he'd been
lying here was hard to tell; certainly long enough for midday to turn to dusk.
After he'd left the waterfall, he had come straight here. The nearer he got,
the lower he stooped, until in the end he was crawling on all fours like a dog.
He didn't want them to see him. Through all his dealings with the three in the
cottage, they had been the ones with all the advantages. It was they who
trapped and manipulated. They who watched and monitored him like an insect
under glass. Now it was time he had the upper hand.

There was power to
be gained by being an observer. Jack felt the thrill of the spy as he lay and
watched the cottage from the darkness; it gave him a feeling of control.

Things would move
at his pace, when he was good and ready. When Rovas had returned from market,
and when everyone was in their place. The element of surprise would be his.

Jack's ears caught
the sound of something rattling in the distance. After a few moments, Rovas'
cart lurched into view. The man himself sat on top of it, a heavy cloth pulled
over his back to keep out the rain. Even before he had jumped down from his
seat, the door opened. Jack caught his breath. It was Tarissa.

For hours he had
known that she was in the cottage. Once or twice, before the shutters had been
closed, he had spotted her silhouette against the oilcloth. Yet seeing her now,
in the flesh, was still a shock. Close enough to see unfamiliar lines of worry
on her face, yet not so close he could hear her speak, she took the cloth from
Rovas' back and then let him through. As the door closed behind them, Jack saw
her hand steal up to test the temperature of his forehead. The sight of that
small intimate gesture, so casually offered and accepted, caused the last
vestiges of softness to harden within Jack's heart. They were in league with
each other, there was no doubt about it. The two of them had plotted everything
out right from the start. Tarissa had just pretended to love him, just as she
had pretended to hate Rovas.

Jack scrambled to
his feet. His legs had been so long without weight that they buckled under him
and he fell back down to the ground. "Damn!" he hissed. He was sick
of being weak, angry at his body for failing him, tired of existing in a world
where he had to run or hide. Rovas had a lot to answer for.

This time when he
stood, his legs stayed firm. As he walked toward the cottage they became
firmer. Firm enough to kick down the door.

Crack!

Pain shot down his
side and through his shoulder. The door hinges splintered and gave way. He
heard Tarissa and Magra scream. A second kick and the door fell inward. The
first person he saw was Rovas. He had a carving knife in his hand. Behind him
were the two women.

"Jack!"
cried Tarissa, lunging forward.

Rovas elbowed her
back. "Stay where you are."

Tarissa thumped
him hard in the back. The sudden burst of strength caught the smuggler off
guard, and she managed to dodge round him. Arms outstretched, she ran toward
Jack.

She looked so
frantic he almost gave in to her. But he didn't. He turned to the side.
"Don't come near me, Tarissa." She came anyway. The same hand, which
moments earlier had reached out to touch Rovas, now reached out toward him.
"You're soaked through and hurt." Turning to Magra, she said,
"Mother, put some water to boil."

"Don't
bother, Magra," said Jack. "I won't be staying long."

Tarissa laid her
hand upon his arm.

Jack pulled away.
"Tarissa, go outside and take Magra with you."

"But
Jack-"

"I said
go!"

The force of his
words were so great they made her flinch. He saw her look toward her mother.
Magra nodded faintly. Both women made their way to where the door once stood.
As Magra stepped past him, she whispered something low, meant for his ears
alone, "It's not what you think, Jack." He heard, but did not
acknowledge her with either look or gesture. His eyes were on Rovas. The
smuggler was standing comfortably, even cockily, resting one arm against the
hearth whilst the other held the blade at his side. Despite his air of
nonchalance, Jack noticed his knuckles were white above the hilt.

Behind him he
heard the two women leave the cottage.

He waited a moment
to give them time to walk away a little and then said, "So, Rovas. What's
your life worth to you?" Rovas smiled his old, familiar charming smile.
"Lad, I tell you now, my life's not yours for the taking."

"Isn't
it?" Jack was surprised at how cold he sounded. He stepped forward, hands
by his side.

"What you
gonna do, lad?" Rovas' voice was rising to a taunt. "Make me burst
into flames?"

Jack was across
the room in one leap. Knife still at his waist, he lunged for Rovas' throat
with bare hands. The smuggler raised a fisted hand from the hearth and smashed
it right into Jack's arrow wound.

Pain exploded in
his chest. Tears filled his eyes. He went reeling backward, arms flailing,
searching for something to break his fall. His flank caught the corner of the
table. The point stabbed into his kidneys. The extra pain focused his reflexes
and he shot his arm around to steady himself against the table edge.

Even as he righted
himself, Jack felt the flare of sorcery in his gut. His skull seemed to
contract around his brain, forming a tight band of pressure round his thoughts.
No. No,
he willed himself. He was going to deal with Rovas alone.
Quickly, desperate to do something physical, Jack grabbed at a bowl that was
resting on the table. Heavy, filled with cooling chicken broth, he threw it
straight into Rovas' face.

The smell of
chicken and onions filled the air. The broth splashed over Rovas' chin and
shoulders. He brought his arm up to stop the bowl from crashing into his face.
It went flying into the hearth, smashing against the stone.

Jack tasted
something salty and metallic in his mouth. It was blood. Sorcery was choking in
his throat, and his desire to keep it back was so strong that he had bitten
straight through his tongue. He clamped his lips tightly together, afraid of
letting even a breath of power out through his mouth.

Rovas wiped his
face on his sleeve. With knife held out in front of him, he stepped forward and
then to the side, effectively cutting off the entire area surrounding the
hearth.

Jack realized what
he was doing: he was trying to claim as much of the available space as possible
for his own. It was a form of intimidation, designed to make one's opponent
feel cornered. Rovas rocked on the balls of his feet, his legs slightly bent at
the knee. "Come on, then, Jack," he said. "Let's see if you're
good enough to beat your teacher."

Talking was a
distraction. Jack didn't listen. He didn't speak. He didn't even breathe.

He leapt forward
and down, slashing at Rovas' thighs with a blade he was hardly aware that he'd
drawn. The smuggler was forced to bend low to guard himself, awkwardly arching
his back. Jack felt the rake of Rovas' knife against his shoulders. He welcomed
the feeling. Anything real, any sensation, any action--even pain was a welcome
distraction to sorcery. Jack shot up from his squatting position. Raising his
elbow above his head, he caught Rovas hard on the chin. The smuggler countered
by trying to knee him in the groin. Jack was all reflexes. He jumped back, just
enough to protect his vitals, whilst his knife came up to slash at Rovas' leg.

His mouth was full
of blood, his lungs were bursting with spent air, and his belly was bloated
with sorcery. Still he didn't breathe. Keeping everything inside was the only
way to retain control.

The pressure in
his head made him wild. Again he leapt forward, desperation his only guide.
Rovas was ready this time. He stepped back, Jack saw him reach behind, and a
second later something bright and coppery streaked across the space between
them.

In that fraction
of an instant, Jack focused his thoughts. Not on Rovas, but on the object he
held. He opened his mouth and let a wisp of sorcery out.

"Aagh!"
screamed Rovas. The heavy copper pot dropped out of his hands and onto the
floor. It landed-hissing and spluttering-in a pool of chicken broth. Jack
caught a glimpse of Rovas' palm: it was seared like a piece of meat. Jack was
shaking. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his chin. The power had lost
its push and he felt free to breathe once more. There was a part of him that
felt triumphant: somehow he had mastered the sorcery, managing to let out just
enough to do what was needed.

Rovas' left hand
lay limply by his side. The knife was in his right. "You're not a
man," he hissed, drawing circles in the air with his blade, "you're a
freak of nature."

Filling his lungs
with new air, Jack threw all his weight into his free arm and punched Rovas in
the face. The smuggler's blade caught him as he drew back. Jack was hardly
aware of it. He felt strong, powerful, in charge. And it was time to make Rovas
pay.

Jack took over the
fight. He knew Rovas' moves before he made them, anticipated his defenses and
countered his attacks. As soon as a weakness was spotted, it was exploited. At
the first hint of an advantage, Jack was there nipping it in the bud. He
allowed Rovas neither time, nor space, nor opportunity. He was younger, faster,
and fitter, and he wore the man down.

Before he knew it,
Rovas was on the floor and Jack's hands were at his throat. Both knives were
long gone. Jack squeezed the red and fleshy neck, his fingers pressing against
the windpipe. Rovas' eyes were wet and bulging, and blood trickled from his
nose and temples. As Jack bore down on him, his tongue began to protrude from
his lips. A choking noise gurgled at the back of his throat. Jack pressed
harder. He could now feel the curve of the windpipe, and forcing it closed was
all that mattered. The smuggler's face began to take on a bluish tinge. The
choking noise faded away, replaced by a weak hiss.. Jack's thumbs were
knuckle-deep in Rovas' throat. His mind was playing pictures of the garrison
alight with flames, of the escape tunnel ending in a dirt wall, and of Tarissa
reaching up to feel the temperature of Rovas' forehead. Laughter, cruel and
taunting, sounded in his ears. His thumbs dug deeper.

"Stop!
Stop!"

Jack felt someone
tugging at his arm. He lashed out blindly. He heard the skitter of pots and
pans, followed by a dull thud as someone slammed against the wall. Glancing up,
he saw Tarissa lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Before he had time to
react, something hard slammed into his jaw. The force of the blow sent him
reeling. He fell sideways, losing his grip on Rovas' neck. Struggling to his
feet, he whipped around and was presented with the sight of Magra brandishing
the same copper pot that had been used against him earlier. She had drawn it
back for a second blow.

"Get away
from him," she cried. "Or as Borc is my witness, I swear I will kill
you."

Jack stepped away
from Rovas' body. His vision was blurred and his jaw felt as if it had been
smashed with a hammer. Behind him he heard Tarissa getting to her feet.

Magra placed the
pot on the table. She went over to Rovas and knelt by his side. Putting her ear
to his mouth, she listened for the sound of breathing. Her fine features were
taut with worry. She looked ten years older than when Jack had seen her last.
After a moment, she straightened up. "He's alive," she said. Her voice
was oddly unemotional. Sighing heavily, she stood up. "Fetch me some
water, Tarissa, and a little soured wine."

"No,
Mother." Tarissa stepped forward and shook her head. "I'm going to
see to Jack."

The two women
looked at each other. After a moment Magra shrugged. "Do whatever you have
to." She turned and walked toward the larder.

"Jack,"
said Tarissa softly. "Are you all right? You're covered in blood."
She raised her hand nervously, afraid to touch him, yet wanting to all the
same.

"I'm
fine." Jack stepped away from her. He was confused and tired, drained of
all strength and emotion.

"We were so
worried about you," said Tarissa quickly. Her eyes were bright with tears.
"Rovas has been staking out the garrison. When you didn't turn up that
night I didn't know what to think. I couldn't sleep or eat."

"You should
be on the stage, Tarissa."

"What do you
mean?"

Jack spoke
quietly; he was too exhausted for anger. "You know very well what I mean.
The tunnel was blocked. You and Rovas sent me running into a dirt wall."

Tarissa's mouth
fell open. "But Jack-"

"No," he
raised his hand, "I don't want to hear any more lies."

"I'm not
lying." Tarissa's spirit was returning. Her cheeks were red and blotched.
"Every day since you left we've been out looking for you. As soon as I
learned you were captured, I begged Rovas to try and rescue you."

"Didn't do it
though, did he?" Jack's voice was sharp. "No. It was too risky. We
were going to leave it until the day they took you for questioning."