King's Man and Thief (2 page)

Deveren, his knees buckling, stumbled to the bed. He felt concerned hands closing on his shoulders and arms, trying to pull him away, but he tore loose and fell upon his wife's corpse, sobbing hoarsely. Dimly he realized that her flesh was cold. Any chance Health's Blesser might have had of saving the child, if not the mother, had long since passed.

They had been married only a year and a half. They were expecting a child. They were supposed to have years left, decades together... and one stranger's greed and evil had destroyed it all.

"Kastara ... I'm so sorry ... I should have stayed ..." She was stiff and cold in his arms as he clutched her to him, and hard on the heels of his wild grief was a hot, scorching rage.

One thought hammered at his brain, and would sustain him through years to come. Deveren Larath would find the man who had done this. He would find him, and then, he would kill him. It was that simple.

And among the crimes most loathed by Light's faithful shall be the deeds done away from his face: murder, treachery, and theft.

—from Laws of the Great God, Light

1285

Night is the thief’s friend. It enfolds him in its blanket of anonymity, hides the glitter of the lethal blade, the gleam of stolen gold. Darkness is his sanctuary, as certain a refuge for him as a temple is to the followers of its faith. Folk who conduct their business in the daylight hours sleep in the illusion of peace, as ignorant of the burglars who steal their coins as of the blades that steal their lives.

Allika sauntered carelessly down Ocean's View, the main street of Braedon, with only the moon to light her path. Cool silver light gleamed on the dark cobblestones, slick with the early morning dampness common to all seashore towns. Allika was a child of the friendly night and had no fear of what might be lurking in the shadows in the predawn hours. It was the day, with its dozens of sharp-eyed vendors and, perhaps, city guards, that harbored danger. Her doll, Miss Lally, made no protest as she bumped her rag-filled head against the cobblestones. Allika tended to drag Miss Lally by one limb, usually a leg.

Allika hummed to herself as she turned left, then right, then left again, entering the labyrinth of back alleys that were the seedier areas of Braedon. Her stomach rumbled, providing a bass counterpoint to the girl's wordless voice. She patted it absently. There would be food waiting at the Whale's Tail, more food than she'd seen in a week. The group had made a wonderful haul two nights ago, and Allika wanted to arrive before all the good things were gone.

The Whale's Tail, a third-rate tavern on a narrow, claustrophobic street that didn't even have a name, was the only building with its lights on. Allika stood on her toes to reach the knob, turned it with some effort, and entered.

The cramped, shabby tavern was not exactly a place for a seven-year-old girl, but to Allika, it was the closest thing to a home she had ever found. She felt utterly welcome here.

'"Lo," she said cheerfully, grinning at the curious collection of nobles and slum rats that considered her part of their family. "What can I have?"

"Anything you want, Little Squirrel," invited a laughing barmaid, stepping carefully around Allika as the girl, not really waiting for an answer, headed straight for the nearest table. The wine-stained wooden table was piled high with bread, cheese, meats, and most enticing of all, sweet-cakes.

Even among themselves, the thieves of the city of Braedon called one another by special names. Allika was Little Squirrel. The barmaid/thief who greeted her was Dove, and the bearded, heavy-set man who lifted Allika high enough so that she could reach the beckoning sweetcakes was Bear.

Bear now watched with amusement as Allika grew frustrated that her small hands could hold only a limited amount of food. Attempting to grab one more item, she dropped two.

"That'll do you for now!" Bear laughed. "Come back when you want more."

Allika nodded. "Is Fox coming tonight?"

"He's been invited. But he's probably too busy with his rich friends for the likes of us."

"Oh." Some of the enthusiasm went out of the girl's face. She ambled behind the bar to eat her treats safely away from adult conversation and feet.

Bear watched her go with a gaze growing speculative. Little Squirrel was a good little pickpocket. She had a pretty face, a sweet face that deceived her victims. In a few more years, she'd have a figure to go with that face. Men would pay a lot for her. He wondered why he hadn't considered prostitution before. After all, his group didn't need to limit themselves to theft. Hadn't they just proved that?

Bear had held his post for a record twelve years, and the recent robberies and murders of no fewer than three Braedon councilmen in one swift, sure highway attack would do nothing but strengthen his position as chief wolf of a savage pack.

The thought of the money Allika would earn him in a few years brought a smile to his thick lips.

"Another round," the Bear told the tavern keeper, a balding older man called Badger. "I see a few hardworking men whose glasses aren't full." He laughed and drained his own mug, which was promptly refilled by the equally genial Badger. As the
"barmaids"
set about the task of refilling the empty glasses, a not terribly sober, bone-thin man stumbled to his feet.

"A toast t' Bear! Today the city councilmen—tomorrow, the city isself!"

As a cheer went up, the door to the Whale's Tale splintered with a thunderous crack. The thieves, utterly shocked, hesitated just an instant too long. Then there was little time to act as armed men dressed in black clothing, their faces smeared with soot, suddenly swarmed into the tavern.

Bear overturned his table and dove behind it. A knife whistled through the air and landed with a
thunk
in the wood, inches from his head. Seizing two of the many daggers he always carried with him, Bear took aim and hurled them at the silent, black-clad attackers. One fell, the blade in his throat. His comrade turned coolly around and lunged for Bear.

Bear had expected more thrown daggers, not a suicidal charge, and he had only just reached for another knife when the killer was upon him. Though he outweighed the intruder by about fifty pounds, Bear fell beneath him. He felt cool metal touch his throat, then a brief, searing flash of white-hot agony. Then he felt nothing at all.

By the time the unknown killer had dispatched the leader of the thieves, seventeen of Bear's followers lay dead in pools of their own blood. A few had escaped, but not many. The men in black glanced around, their breathing heavy, searching for any who might have escaped their notice. In a corner, Dove groaned as she clutched her abdomen. Blood pumped through her Fingers. The man who had murdered Bear knelt beside her and, with a quick, strong movement, snapped her neck. The gesture was professionally executed, and might have been considered a mercy.

The men listened, tense. Silence.

No, not quite. From behind the bar came a soft, faint whimpering sound. The men snapped to attention, and two of them swiftly went to the source of the noise.

Allika stared up at them, her eyes enormous with terror and her face moon-pale. She clutched Miss Lally to her chest and mewled helplessly.

One of the Black Men raised his knife. Allika remained frozen, enthralled with horror, unable to move, to flee, or to defend herself.

"No," came a voice. "She's just a child."

"Children grow up to be thieves."

"We don't know that she
is
a thief." A second man, taller than the others, stepped into Allika's view. "She could be just the brat of one of the women."

"We have our orders," the First man protested.

"And I'm giving you yours. Let her alone." The tall man knelt. Allika stared at him, unable to stop trembling. The man's blue eyes seemed to bore straight into her brain.

"Listen to me, little girl. I want you to tell your friends something. Tell them that the city will not tolerate what they did on Travsdae. Any more incidents, and we'll come for the ones we didn't get tonight. Understand?"

Allika nodded. The man rose and left without another word, motioning to his fellows. She heard their retreating footsteps, then silence.

For a long time, Allika cowered behind the bar. No guards came to investigate the shrill screams that had filled the Whale's Tail. No concerned citizen, roused from his slumber, came to rescue her. Finally, she realized that she would somehow have to walk, alone, through the carnage that littered the tavern floor. She picked up the doll and sat her on her knee.

"No one's going to come get me," she whispered to Miss Lally.

Then it was Miss Lally's turn to "talk" and the words came easier, crept past the lump in her throat, when Allika was speaking for her cloth playmate.

"Come on, Allika," she said in a high, squeaky voice, moving Miss Lally's head as if the doll were speaking. "We have to go see Fox. Fox will know exactly what to do!"

"But, Miss Lally, I'm scared to go out there," she whispered in her own small voice.

"I'll be with you, Allika. They can't hurt me, and I'll be brave enough for the both of us!" Her voice cracked a little, and she laughed at herself. Rising unsteadily, the girl tried to brace herself for the scene, but her young mind was incapable of visualizing so brutal and bloody a horror. The bodies of people she had considered family were sprawled across the floor. Blood was everywhere. Allika choked back a sob.

They look just like dolls,
she told herself fiercely.
That's all. Just like broken dolls.

She took one step, then another. Her poorly shod feet squelched in blood, and she swallowed hard. Allika did not look down, but kept her eyes on what was left of the tavern door.
Step carefully, over the limp arms, between the sprawled legs, next to the bloody heads... broken dolls. Just broken dolls.

The thought got her through the seemingly endless walk to the smashed door. Once out in the cool, safe emptiness of the streets, Allika gasped the brine-scented air as if it were the sweetest fragrance in the world. Then, no longer dragging Miss Lally but clutching her tightly, she broke into a run.

She would deliver the Black Man's message to Fox, and Fox would know exactly what to do.

Fox, known to everyone but the thieves of Braedon as Lord Deveren Larath, patron of the arts, connoisseur of the finer things in life, and incidentally possessor of a slight bit of hand magic, did
not
know exactly what to do. But he had a good idea.

Thirty-four years old, he had no crow's feet and only a touch of gray in his light brown hair. His hands were the hands of a musician, a surgeon, or a thief—slim, delicate, and clever. The fact that he had the gift of hand magic, magic that allowed him to manipulate objects to a certain degree, accentuated his dexterousness. Tonight, Venedae, only one night after the massacre, he wore an unembellished, royal blue tunic and comfortable black breeches—clothes that would allow for swift, unencumbered movement should the need arise.

Allika huddled in his lap, her small face nestled against his broad chest as if she could absorb his strength. Absently Deveren stroked her short black hair, his eyes flickering over the assembled company as they waited for the emergency meeting to begin.

Rabbit, a local apothecary and herbalist, had volunteered his shop for the meeting. Once, such a gesture had been commonplace, even expected. Now, in light of the murders, the offer was an act of quiet courage. The back room was where the herbs used in his medicines dried, and those who entered had to brush aside fragile, fragrant bunches of basil, marjoram, fennel, and other plants that hung from the ceiling. The warm, friendly scent of cinnamon vied with the strong odor of garlic and the tang of some kind of citrus. Rabbit had done what he could to clear the floor so people would have places to sit, but the quarters were still cramped. A few encased candles provided flickering illumination.

Deveren noticed that, to a man, the thieves all wore the same strained, wary expression that he himself bore. Everyone here knew that it was simple luck that he or she hadn't been in the Whale's Tail Desdae night, quaffing a toast to the soon-to-be-deceased Bear. As they entered, the men and women, some clad in finery, some in functional, working clothing, and some in rags, spoke soft, somber greetings.

Deveren knew them all: Clia, "Sparrow," the fortuneteller whose sultry charms diverted attention from her quick fingers; the noble-born Pedric, known as Otter, who delighted in audacious plans and narrow escapes, and his current woman Marrika, "Raven;" Freylis, "Wolf," whose bullying manner and greed would have embarrassed any pack of real wolves; Hawk, Mouse, Cat, Hound ... tonight, all their voices would be heard as they selected a new leader.

After all the surviving thieves were assembled, a pitiful twenty or so, the low conversation ceased. With their leader dead, no one was sure who would conduct the meeting. The thieves raised eyes that mirrored their inner apprehension and turmoil. Only black-haired Marrika, seated cross-legged on the floor with her ubiquitous chunk of wood and her carving knife, seemed at ease. Save for the
scritch-scritch
sound of her whittling, the room was filled with an awkward silence. At last, Deveren gently pushed Allika off his lap and rose.

"If I remember correctly," he began, "anyone may volunteer to be leader, and then we pare it down from there." He raised his own hand. "I'm willing. Anyone else care to put his neck in the noose?"

Freylis's big hand shot up at once, as Deveren could have predicted. Freylis had been close to Bear and was certainly that man's equal in strength and viciousness, though he lacked the late leader's cunning. Of course, Freylis would covet the position. And he was popular enough that he just might get it. Deveren sincerely hoped not.

A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw Marrika elbowing Pedric. The young man, his fine velvet doublet and hose clashing with his woman's manlike working clothes, rolled his eyes and stuck his own thin, aristocrat's hand in the air. Marrika had paused in her whittling and her dark eyes snapped fire. Deveren knew that, had tradition not forbidden women to become leader, she would have raised her own hand.