Betrayal Page 6

  Still, Tor neither excused himself nor wavered in his direction as he pushed through the gawking, jeering audience. Finally his height allowed him to keep Cloot in his sights. He was astonished by a new sensation: the cripple had turned the link into a physical connection, skimming off Tor’s reserves of energy to hang onto consciousness.

  Now he was at the front of the crowd and several disgruntled people wondered at the youth’s arrogance in pushing past. He noted the same brute of a guard aiming another kick. He had to stop it. With no time for sophistication he used a trick which Alyssa had taught him, sending a brief but blinding pain into the eyes of Cloot’s tormentor. The guard halted with a look of shock, before screaming and falling to the ground.

  Tor drew level with the prisoner.

  Thank you for staying, Torkyn.

  The voice in his head was full of pain and there was no time for pleasantries. The confused guard was climbing to his feet and Tor knew he could not risk a second spike of magic so close on the last. Inquisitors were always around and may suspect something even if they could not detect it.

  Then a new voice spoke.

  ‘Good people, please, hush yourselves. Corlin, would you be so kind as to ask your brave guards here to desist from injuring their prisoner further. I’m sure he has no plans to leave just at the moment.’

  The last comment drew titters from the immediate onlookers. Tor studied the man who was now arguing with the head guard. He seemed at ease in front of all the people; almost amused, in fact, by his own participation in the show.

  Corlin did not share his good humour.

  ‘This is not your business, Cyrus, nor your jurisdiction, I might add. I’m acting on behalf of the good people of Hatten.’

  ‘That’s Prime Cyrus to you and your fearless guards, Corlin, and by the looks of the prisoner I’m certain his punishment is complete. Do tell me again what it is he is accused of?’ The Prime’s voice dripped dangerously with sarcasm.

  Corlin was angry at the breach in protocol but the man before him outranked him. He took a breath and faced the people, speaking theatrically, hoping to resurrect some of the previous enthusiasm.

  ‘He stands accused of peeping during the ladies’ session at the baths this morning.’

  It suddenly sounded ridiculous. The crime considered heinous several hours ago, when several of the wives of the town’s most prominent and wealthy citizens had levelled the accusation, now seemed petty.

  The Prime was a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, dark hair and a closely cropped beard. He wore no badge of office and was dressed in simple dark breeches and white shirt. His voice was clear and deep and his grey eyes had a sparkling quality, as though in perpetual merriment, which he demonstrated fully now by lifting his head and laughing. In fact he roared, and many in the crowd joined in. Even Tor, relieved at finding himself forgotten in the scene, found himself grinning.

  ‘Ha! The rich and pampered ladies who frequent the baths should be secretly delighted that anyone should want to peep at their ample backsides and thunderous thighs.’

  By now it seemed that everyone but Corlin and his sidekicks had dissolved into laughter. Tor noted, however, that the Prime’s eyes were no longer smiling when they returned to rest on the cripple’s tormentors. And his voice was as cold as a winter’s stream.

  ‘Release this wretch, Corlin, and go and find some bigger game to amuse your apes with. This man’s punishment—just or unjust—is complete.’

  ‘Says who?’ snapped Corlin, who thought he had been in charge of proceedings.

  ‘Says I!’ The Prime’s eyes were glittering dangerously dark now. ‘Release him immediately on my order. Call off the thugs who masquerade here as men of the military and don’t even think of reaching for your sword. Your head will be rolling in this very gutter before it is out of its sheath.’

  Corlin hissed a threat. ‘I will live to see you regret this, Prime. Another stage, another day, and don’t be too sure it won’t be your own head the dogs fight over.’

  He turned swiftly, drew a large knife and cut the bonds on Cloot’s hands and feet. His final act was to scowl meaningfully at the hushed crowd before pushing past, his helpers falling in step behind him.

  The people who, minutes earlier, had been crying for blood now saw the cripple for what he was. They began to drift away, embarrassed.

  ‘I’d be obliged if you told me who you are and what you were planning to do a few moments ago,’ enquired Cyrus, now standing above Tor who was still crouched next to Cloot.

  An unspoken message passed between Tor and his crippled friend. Tor stood, finding himself eye to eye with the Prime, which was a new experience for both of them. Each was used to being the tallest of men. Tor noted with relief that the man’s eyes had resumed a certain mellowness and he opted for his usual explanation when he found himself in an inexplicable situation: a characteristic shrug.

  ‘I asked you for your name, boy,’ Cyrus reminded quietly.

  ‘Tor, sir. Torkyn Gynt.’

  ‘And you hail from…?’

  ‘I’ve just arrived from Flat Meadows, Prime. I…um…I stabled my mare and was strolling around the town hoping to find a room for the night and stumbled across this…er, him.’ Tor nodded towards the prisoner who remained silent.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No, sir, er Prime, I don’t. Well, he spoke…No sir. No, I don’t…not exactly.’

  This made Cyrus glare at him again. He enunciated his words very carefully in case Tor had not understood the original question.

  ‘Have you or have you not met this person before? Don’t be clever with me, boy.’

  ‘I have not,’ Tor replied, relieved he could answer with honesty.

  The Prime squinted as he tried to read Tor. It was a look his two lieutenants knew intimately. He possessed an uncanny ability to judge the integrity of someone. Everyone in the royal corps knew to fear that look if they were not being entirely truthful. Tor held the gaze steadily and, though tempted to look down and kick a stone or shuffle his feet with the embarrassment he felt, resisted the urge.

  Cloot, his head still attached to the post by the nail in his ear, grunted in pain. Cyrus cast a glance at the prisoner and then back at Tor. Finally he extended a large and surprisingly well-manicured hand at the boy.

  ‘Well, Torkyn Gynt, if you don’t know this man then you’re a fool.’ He smiled broadly which took Tor by surprise. ‘But a courageous one. I’m glad someone had the bollocks to think about standing up to that sadistic swine…though the gods only know what you had in mind.’

  His smile, ferocious and brilliant in intensity, disappeared as soon as he looked back at the man on the floor. ‘Help me, boy. Let’s get the halfwit free.’

  ‘He’s not a halfwit, sir; his name’s Cloot…er, Prime Cyrus.’ Tor’s leap to defend was sprung too fast.

  Cyrus peered at him with raised eyebrows and a grim yet bemused expression. He said nothing, the look was enough.

  ‘I mean…’ Tor was about to start gabbling. He knew he had made an error. ‘With respect, Prime, from what I can tell, he may be mute as well as a cripple, perhaps not an idiot though.’

  Tor grinned. He hoped it would help, and he felt sweet relief when the Prime’s brow puzzled.

  ‘You’re a physic as well as a warrior, then?’ Cyrus’s sarcasm was gentle this time.

  ‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I’m training to be one, that is, sir. I just think he would have cried out…er, from the pain if he could talk. Don’t you think so?’

  Cyrus growled quietly to himself. He locked his knife behind the carelessly banged-in nail. ‘Now for the nasty bit,’ he said, before releasing Cloot who fell helplessly against Tor. ‘You poor sod,’ Cyrus muttered, noticing just how badly hurt the man was. ‘Wait whilst I get help, Gynt.’ He stalked away.

  Cloot, still in Tor’s arms, turned his large head to face the boy. His misshapen features, pulped by the beating, somehow rearranged themselves into a smile. Th
ank you, was whispered into Tor’s mind.

  Tor was moved by the man’s dignity. ‘Rest, Cloot.’

  Cyrus returned with two of his men in tow, dragging a cart.

  ‘Get him loaded on there, Riss,’ he ordered. ‘Gently, man, he’s half dead already.’

  Tor stood up. ‘What happens now, sir?’

  ‘My men will see him to the alms hostel. If old man Jonas is not in his cups yet he’ll patch him up as best he can and perhaps find him a pallet for the night. It’s the best we can do.’

  Cloot was slumped on the cart. Riss, with the help of his mate, was beginning to wheel him away. Tor knew it would happen: Cloot’s voice was back—urgent and laced with pain but also anxiety. Tor! We must remain together. Cloot was still drawing on Tor’s energy to remain conscious.

  Tor had to try. ‘Prime Cyrus!’

  The Prime had already swung himself up into his saddle. ‘Good luck, Gynt.’ He turned his horse.

  Tor leapt after him, as well as shouting to the men laboriously wheeling Cloot away. ‘Ho, you men, wait!’

  ‘What now, boy?’ growled Cyrus. ‘I’ve wasted enough of the King’s time on this affair already. Speak!’

  ‘I’ll take care of him,’ Tor blurted.

  ‘You’ll what? What the hell are you talking about, Gynt?’ Cyrus turned his horse back.

  Tor really did not have any idea what this was about. What did Cloot mean by saying the two of them had to remain together, and how did he know his name? It was too strange, and yet the last few days had been so full of strange happenings that nothing should really surprise him.

  He followed his instincts.

  ‘Prime Cyrus. Please, let me look after him. I can’t imagine what kind of care he’ll receive at the alms house with him being a cripple and the man the town has just beaten half to death…Well, why would anyone bother to help him? He’ll die. We both know this, so what can it hurt if I help?’ Tor didn’t know what else to say.

  Once again the Prime studied him. ‘Why do I get the distinct feeling that you are not telling me everything, boy? What possible good can you do him? Granted old Jonas is a bit of a butcher but I can’t think of anything better.’ He looked almost kindly down at Tor. ‘There’s nothing you can do for him, Gynt. Go on home with you. Back to your village and forget about this ugly event.’

  Tor stepped towards the cart. ‘It matters to me. This man will die if I don’t help him. I have a little money. Perhaps I could afford a better physician for him.’ Tor knew he was grasping. He would have to come up with something better than that.

  ‘You have money? Money to burn on a half-dead, retarded cripple you apparently don’t know?’ The Prime sounded understandably incredulous.

  Think, Tor, think!

  ‘It was honestly earned, sir, and I might as well spend it on doing something to guarantee myself a place in heaven than pissing it into the gutter tonight.’

  Tor waved his hand nonchalantly, hoping the show of bravado would sway Cyrus. It did.

  ‘Have him, Torkyn Gynt. He’s paid his dues. He’s a free man. Good luck to you both.’

  With that the Prime turned to his men, barked an order and rode off without looking back.

  Riss cleared his throat a little too loudly. ‘Where d’you want him, boy?’

  ‘Er…what?’ Tor raked his hand through his hair.

  ‘Prime’s orders. We’re to take him to wherever you are staying.’

  Tor could see from the dust on the man’s clothes that it had been a long day of marching and he had probably been looking forward to a few ales rather than wheeling a cripple around.

  ‘I have no place to stay,’ Tor said.

  Riss looked as though he was going to step forward and club him. Instead he growled, ‘Halfwits stick together it seems.’

  ‘Look, I’ve tried to find an inn but it’s so busy tonight and I’ve had no luck. How about helping me find somewhere? I’ll pay you,’ Tor blurted desperately as both men cursed him.

  ‘You’re very free with your money today, lad,’ Riss said in a tone which suggested he didn’t think Tor had any.

  ‘How much?’ Golag’s voice, silent up to now, grated as though it wasn’t used often enough.

  ‘Find me a room, a physic and a hot stew and I’ll pay you both a duke apiece.’

  Tor had already guessed that these infantrymen were paid less than that each week. It was an exorbitant sum but it was worth it if they would help. He could not fault Merkhud’s generosity of purse but would need to be frugal after this.

  Both men whistled through their teeth. The offer was irresistible, Tor hoped; to his relief Riss nodded. They each took a handle of the cart and the wheels squealed as Tor pushed from behind. He had no idea where they were all headed but he was grateful to the two soldiers who mumbled quietly to themselves as they navigated a path down the crowded main street.

  Tor squeezed Cloot’s arm. Not long now he eased gently into the pained mind of his friend.

  There was no reply, save another pull on his strength.

  The scenery began to change: they were on the fringe of the town in a more rundown district. Turning into a cobbled alley they bumped their way through the narrow pass overhung with densely built houses. At the end of the alley they entered a small square which was a mass of activity and riotous colour. Bright bunting was being hung and stalls were being set up. The smell of onions cooking and various meats beginning to sizzle took hold of Tor’s stomach and squeezed tightly. He was ravenous.

  He caught up with Riss. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They’re crowning the King of the Sea tonight.’

  ‘King of the Sea?’ Tor looked confused.

  ‘I thought you were from around these parts, Gynt. How come you don’t know about the Harvest Festival?’ Riss spat expertly.

  ‘I’ve led a quiet life, Riss. I remember my parents talking about this once, but I’ve never been out of the district until now. What happens?’

  The cart rumbled slowly around the large square as Riss explained to Tor that although Hatten was generally a wealthy town now, the people had not forgotten its humble beginning when the area began to build its wealth on fishing and wine. Its grape juices were not as fine as the smaller vineyards of the sundrenched valleys south of the capital, but this region supplied most of the Kingdom’s commonly drunk wine. Each year at the end of summer, when the huge schools of prized lokki fish arrived to fill the fishing trawlers and the vines were laden with bunches of fat fruit, the farmers and fishermen gave thanks.

  A festival had grown up around the annual harvest, based on choosing a King of the Sea and a Queen of the Vines. It was believed that when the royal pair lay together they would propagate the following year’s harvest. The ritual had been observed for almost two centuries and these days it was a huge event for Hatten.

  All the fishing boats would be in port tonight and the inns filled with landowners, captains, sailors and vineyard workers as well as visiting merchants and ordinary people passing through to observe the festivities and join the fun.

  No wonder there’s nowhere to stay, Tor thought.

  ‘And as this year’s Queen was crowned last night, tonight it’s the turn of the King, and then the merrymaking for them and the town begins,’ Riss continued.

  Golag’s grimy face and yellowed teeth leered into view. ‘Perhaps I’ll be chosen. Wouldn’t mind giving that Eryn one.’ His voice sounded like boulders rubbing together, and he grabbed his crotch to emphasise his point.

  The men stopped the cart.

  ‘Who’s Eryn?’ Tor asked as they lowered the front end.

  ‘Aw, she’s just one of the whores chosen as Queen by the town’s menfolk. But I don’t think Golag stands a chance, eh, Golag?’ Riss poked his grubby friend in the ribs and laughed.

  Tor frowned. ‘So now the women choose the King. Is that how it works?’

  ‘No, boy. The Queen chooses her own. Light strike me! That Eryn won’t be spreading her legs for anyone
ugly tonight. Fucking the likes of us is strictly on a pay as you go basis.’

  ‘Pay as you come,’ Golag corrected, pleased with his jest.

  Both soldiers found this most amusing; their mirth became even louder when they saw Tor blushing.

  ‘Er, right. I think I understand now. Thank you, Riss.’

  Tor’s attempt at a polite end to the conversation provoked more laughter. He decided to change the subject swiftly and looked around. They were standing in front of an inn called The Empty Goblet and he could hear loud singing and men’s voices.

  ‘Are we here?’

  Riss had composed himself but Golag was still banging his chest to stop the hacking cough which followed his guffaws.

  ‘Yes, boy. I reckon we can find you a small room here tonight, with some luck and some change to grease old Doddy’s palm.’

  ‘How much?’ Tor didn’t want to pull out his pouch of coins so he dug around in his pockets. He found some barons and small copper. Golag grabbed the lot.

  ‘Hey!’ Tor pulled at Golag’s filthy sleeve.

  ‘And don’t forget my duke,’ the soldier growled into Tor’s face.

  Tor had put two dukes into his shirt pocket as they had made their way here and was now very glad for such foresight. He gave Riss both coins.

  ‘What happens now?’

  Riss cleared his throat and spat again. The gob gleamed on the dust by Tor’s toes.

  ‘Get the halfwit onto your shoulders, lad, and follow me.’

  There was no point in trying to talk to Cloot now. Tor found he was becoming used to the sensation of Cloot pulling on his energy. He pushed another parcel of energy into his half-dead friend, feeling the loss keenly, and hefted Cloot awkwardly onto his right shoulder. Stooping, Tor staggered as he followed Riss inside. The noise was deafening. It was a soldiers’ inn all right and they all looked and smelled like Riss and Golag. He followed, waiting impatiently under the dead weight of Cloot as Riss said something to the fat man behind the counter. The innkeeper pointed a pudgy finger upstairs.

  Riss turned to Tor. ‘Top floor. I’ll find the doctor and then that’s my part of this deal done.’ He smiled and briefly shook hands, which Tor found reassuring.