King's Man and Thief (24 page)

Allika stuck her tongue out to aid her concentration. Beneath her small fingers, designs came to life.

"Now, sweeting, what are these?" asked Deveren, crouching down beside her.
'These are the things that were on the box," said Allika. "And it was glowing, too."

Swirls and dots, arcs and circles. Deveren didn't recognize him, but across the table from him his brother's face grew pale.

What in the Nightlands is going on?
Deveren felt an icy finger of apprehension trace its way up his spine and he shivered.

"Very good, honey," he approved. "Do you want another slice of bread?"
"No," said Allika shortly, flashing him an annoyed glance. "I
want
to finish my
drawing."

Deveren said nothing. She completed the symbols and sat back. 'Those were on the box," she said. "And this was on the rat. It was done on its back in white paint." Softly, she added, more to herself than the Larath brothers, "It had red eyes."

She dipped her finger in the ink again —by now the digit was stained completely black—and traced a long, single line horizontally across the page. She examined her work, then filled the line out a little bit. Again she inked her finger and drew a second, shorter line about three quarters of the way through the first.

Even Deveren knew what that one was. He glanced over and saw comprehension in Damir's eyes. The Sword of Vengeance. The mark of the god.

Allika had finished. She wiped her inky finger on her dress and announced, "
Now
I want some more bread." Busily she scratched her scalp.
The poor thing's probably crawling with vermin after spending a night in the sewers,
Deveren thought.

"Would you like to stay here for the night?" he invited her, knowing she would reject the offer. As he predicted, she shook her dark head. "No. I got a place to stay tonight."

He sent her on her way loaded down with bread; dried meats, and dried, sugared fruit. She exited the way she had come, climbing out the window, glancing around to see if she was being watched, then slipping into the shadows.

Deveren closed the window, locked it, and drew the shades. He turned to face Damir. "You reacted to the symbols that were on the box," he said, wasting no time. "What were they?"

Damir shook his head, gathering his thoughts. "I was convinced the child was lying," he said softly, "but when she drew these ..." He tapped the sketch with a long, thin forefinger. Deveren slipped into a chair beside his brother, and the two of them stared at the designs.

'These are wards," Damir continued. "And not your ordinary, workaday wards, either. Nor was the box of the common sort, from what she described. It was built to order, and warded heavily. Something very dangerous and very evil was inside it, Deveren." He raised his eyes to meet his brother's. "Something that could indeed be called a weapon."

Deveren felt a strange tightness in his chest at the thought of brave little Allika, alone in a dark sewer, battling this ... creature ... with only a toy for comfort. "Is Allika going to be all right? That bite—"

"—should heal up just fine," Damir reassured him. "That's what sits ill with me about this whole thing. Something that dark and powerful—it should have overcome her at once."

"But what do Freylis, Marrika, and Khem have to do with something like this? I know them all, Damir, and while I'd not trust a one of them with my back turned, I find it hard to believe that they've mastered this sort of magic."

"I suspect they haven't. Allika describes the box as coming from somewhere else—probably a bribe of power to come or some such thing."

Deveren smiled a little. "So now you're trusting her information, eh?"
"I know a good spy when I see one, little brother," Damir replied.

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me at all to find out that Freylis was the one behind my attempted murder. But a giant rat loose in the sewers? It doesn't make any sense to me."

"You do not have all the pieces of the puzzle."

"Well, one piece I intend to get," stated Deveren, "and that is the pelt of that damned rat. If it's skulking about in the sewers, then it's a danger to my thieves. I'm going to put out orders for it to be destroyed."
It sounded so feeble. But it was the only thing he could do.

The second rite was over.

The corpse lay across the bloodied altar, the shell of what had once been an old man, now stiff and cold. They had found him begging in the streets; an easier abduction than Lorinda's, but, as far as Marrika was concerned, not nearly as satisfying.

Kannil, though, fairly radiated joy. The thieves sat now in his temple, feasting on the food he had prepared for them. Marrika observed them—"her" thieves—with pride and excitement. She sat in a place of honor, her newly donned robes of black bringing out the blue-black sheen of her thick hair, the sparkle of her brown eyes.

She had been inducted as Vengeance's Chosen, in a private ceremony with the Blesser earlier that evening. Kannil now provided for all her needs. She would never have to prowl the streets again, save for her own amusement; never know the press of a man's body against hers, save when she chose. She bit into a chunk of mutton, delicately wiped the grease from her face, and smiled to herself.

When the feasting was done, she rose. All eyes were upon her. Even Freylis, now, was afraid of her. She walked past her thieves, making and holding eye contact with each one, before she spoke.

" 'Unkind thoughts breed like rats in the darkness,'" she quoted. "That's an old folk saying from Mhar. Many of you have heard it, for relationships between Mhar and Byrn have been good these days. Very good," she repeated for emphasis, her gaze lingering on Khem's scarred countenance. He smiled.

"As the Chosen of Vengeance, I have found favor with certain elements in Mhar. And what favors come to me," and she spread her arms magnanimously, "I share with you, my loyal thieves. Greatness is coming our way—great riches, power. If all goes well, no one in this room may have to steal by cover of night again. By midsummer, we may be able to take what we want!

"Vengeance has heard the prayers of Kannil, and has been pleased with the sacrifices. He has sent us a blessing, by way of certain people in Mhar. In the sewers beneath the city," she said, regarding them evenly, "our vengeance on the rich and sanctimonious of this city—this
country!
—is waiting. That old folk saying has been given life. There now lurks in the sewers a rat—not an ordinary creature, but a gift from Vengeance himself!"

She was losing them. Looks of puzzlement crept across their faces. Some were incredulous. Marrika continued, speaking quickly.

"It bears a great curse that will be laid upon this land. And it will breed, so the curse may travel. It is the size of a cat—nay, a dog!—coal black, with eyes red as flame."

"I have seen it," said Khem, rising as the assembled crowd began to murmur. "I bore it from Mhar, locked in a box with protective runes to keep its evil confined. But now it is loose, and working for our ends."

Clia couldn't hold back. "A curse? Then pray, what keeps us from being stricken? Curses are dangerous things to tamper with, My Lady Chosen!" Her accented words dripped sarcasm, and Marrika flushed.

"I have been told how the curse works. It is very simple —almost deceptively so. But it will not affect us. Do you wish to hear, or would you rather continue to insult your leader? You are all in too deep; the blood is up to your eyes in a red tide. Betray me now and you will all certainly die!"

That got their attention. Every person in this room had been party to deliberate murder not once, but twice. Clia did not say anything more, and dropped her gaze. Marrika waited, but the room was again silent.

"If unkind thoughts do breed like rats in the darkness," she said, "then what of a rat whose curse is to cause unkind thoughts? That is its purpose, and those who resist the desire shall be driven mad. Deeds such as we have performed here tonight will give pleasure. Denying the urges, performing socalled 'good' deeds—that will cause pain. Dreadful, sickening, crippling pain, until the sufferer inevitably yields to the desire to hurt, to kill. And then will come release—but for many, it will come too late."

She began walking again, searching for the words to explain a concept that was as hard to grasp, even for her, as quicksilver. "Soon, little hurts will not be enough. Soon, those afflicted will want more pain, more cruelty—and these weaklings will not be able to stay sane, knowing what they have done and will do!"

She whirled, all fire and intensity now. "We are immune to such contortions of the will, for we already embrace the darkness! Behold what we have done!" Marrika pointed triumphantly to the dead man, slain by them all. "How, then, can we be disturbed by wanting more? There is no conflict that will tear us apart inside. Ah, but the guards, the councilmen, the Blessers of other faiths," and she sneered, "they will be ripped apart. When a Healer's hands shine red with blood she herself has spilled, then how can she stay sane? When a guard, sworn to protect and serve, rips apart a child for the slightest transgression—why, then, madness is the only escape.

"And when this curse has run its course, there will be no one left to stand against us. No one who does not see the world the way we do. No one who would have the strength of will to refuse conquest by our friends, our allies who have given us this great blessing.
Now
do you understand?"

They did. The thieves laughed and whooped. When the celebration had sobered a bit, Marrika continued.

"How fast a rat breeds," she purred. "The curse has begun, is certain to have claimed victims already. We should give it some time to take firm hold—say, about two weeks. The curse should reach its height just in time for the Midsummer Festival—the day when Braedon will least expect an attack."

Applause broke out. Marrika laughed, taking it as her due, and halfheartedly tried to calm them. "But we must prepare. Midsummer Festival has always been a good time for us. There are many travelers in town with heavy purses. Much ale is poured, and those who drink deep may wake up the poorer for it. But this year it will be special. We have many things to do before we will be ready to take full advantage of this great gift from the god. Each of you will be assigned tasks. Of this, I will speak later. Enjoy the fruits of your labors."

The meeting thus adjourned, as it were, the thieves began to leave —quietly, by ones and twos. Marrika walked up to Khem. She felt Freylis's eyes on her, but ignored him. He was nothing to her now but muscle for her cause. Khem rose, smiling.

"You were magnificent," he said softly.

She answered his smile by enfolding him in a hot embrace, kissing him deeply. Khem was far more interesting a lover than Freylis could ever be, and he had served—and was continuing to serve—her well.

"You please me," she murmured, "in
all
things." They laughed quietly, together, and then she sobered. "I have been speaking with Blesser Kannil. I have a very important job for you to perform during the Festival. I can trust no one else with it. And," she added, slipping her hand between his legs, "I have another important job for you to perform tonight."

Again the lovers laughed softly. Out of the corner of her eye, Marrika saw Freylis stalk off into the night. She spared a moment from her passion to enjoy her victory over the big man, then returned her attention to Khem's kisses.

I change but in death. 

—meaning of the bay leaf

Darshirin's form was sleek and graceful, his movements subtle and yet powerful enough to propel him swiftly through the water. It was not yet dawn, though a slight lightening of the horizon would have proclaimed the morning's approach, had the aquatic creature bothered to look. But Darshirin was intimately familiar with the darkling depths of the oceans, and did not need eyes to "see."

A flick of his powerful tail sent him rushing forward a few feet above the bottom of the harbor. Small clouds of swirling sand rose from the movement, then floated softly back downward. He emitted sounds; high squeaks and whistles, little clicks and chirps. He had tried to explain this method of "seeing" with his ears to Damir, but intelligent as the mortal was, and though he had the ability to hear and return some of the ocean's songs, Damir hadn't quite been able to understand.

He did not need to. Darshirin and his kind understood; knew that sometimes song was the most powerful of all the gifts granted to the ocean's inhabitants by the One Who Makes. With his eyes, Darshirin could not see at all in this darkness. But with his vocal vision, he could have counted the number of shells on the sandy bottom, navigated his way through the sturdy beams of wood sunk deep to support Braedon's docks. He passed unharmed beneath the hulls of ships.

The only things that he could not see this way, he recalled with a momentary flash of anger and pain, were the nets used by humans. He had learned to be careful around such things. He had taught himself to distinguish fishing vessels from cargo ships, and gave the former a wide berth. Darshirin certainly did not blame the humans for fishing; fish were delicious food! But neither did he wish to be caught a second time in the frightening strands that lifted him up out of the sheltering sea.

Sounds were emitted; images returned. Broken shards of wood that had once been mighty seagoing vessels, washed up on the sands and in the shallow waters. Fish, and bits of floating items that Darshirin knew as human refuse, coming in from the sewer systems. He was not concerned. The ocean was powerful with a strength that mortals could not comprehend. It would take the filth that the humans spewed into it and make of the insult a gift; food for the ground-feeders and drifting seaweed. The ocean would wear it down, until it was part of the sea itself and no longer an earthly intrusion onto the green and blue depths.

Darshirin paused. His expression did not waver, for in this form his mouth was fixed in a permanent grin. But his heart began to beat painfully. He emitted the high sounds again, and the picture returned. It did not, could not lie.