King's Man and Thief (32 page)

Bhakir smothered his anger. Cursed little royal brat. He should have killed the young pup when he had the chance. Accidents happened, after all.

The two little Tenders, huddled close to one another, watched with round eyes. They, too, had been subjected to an examination; they, too, had been exonerated. Now they stared, silent, at their mistress and the big, black-bearded man who had come to see her.

"You must be a very deep sleeper, Blesser," Bhakir said in a voice that sounded perfectly sincere to those who did not know him well. "Two of my guardsmen lie dead in your garden. Yet you did not waken."

The skinny little Blesser shrank back still further. "I did not know. I shall pray for them and their families. Is Castyll—why would he do such a thing?" She seemed genuinely confused, and Bhakir reluctantly dismissed the idea that she was a collaborator. Women, other than Healers, had no magic. There was no way Adara could have "lied" to his mind-reader.

"I fear that our good king may have been kidnapped," he said gravely. Adara's hands flew to her mouth in horror. "That was why I had guards stationed about your Holy House—though I know that it is against custom to do so. Byrn .. ." He sighed and shook his dark head helplessly. "They pose as our allies, but my dear young Blesser, I must tell you that they are no friends to Mhar. I have long feared that such a catastrophe would occur. But to think that even Byrnians would so blaspheme as to kidnap a king from a Holy House!"

"If this is indeed what happened," murmured Adara, "then their souls are lost in truth. Your Grace, please—if you have word of Castyll, let me know. I would see him safe."

"As would I, dear lady." He bowed as low as the huge bulk about his midsection would permit. "My men and I shall leave you in peace now. Thank you for cooperating with us."

He led the way out into the bright, midmorning sunshine. With an effort, he heaved himself into his saddle, his mind working furiously. He slowly motioned for the two guards to ride at his side and the mind-reader to bring up the rear, and the four horses clopped down the cobblestone way toward the palace.

To the guard on his left, Bhakir said softly, "Keep an eye on the girl. Follow me until we are well out of sight, then slip off the horse and double back."

"Certainly, milord, but may I ask your suspicions? The girl knows nothing."

"No, but Castyll may try to reach her —turn her to his cause. If he returns, I want someone there to capture him. It's doubtful, but right now I will not take any risk. Keep the Blesser in your sight at all times, understood?"

"Aye, sir."

To the guard on his right, Bhakir said, "Ride up ahead. I want every road sealed off, every ship that docks at the Ilantha port inspected."

"Quietly, sir, or publicly?"

"Very
publicly. Put the word out that he's been kidnapped by Byrnians. Put a reward out for any sightings. If he shows his head anywhere, I want someone to report it. And if he disappears without a trace, well, we can turn that to our advantage as well. What bothers me most about this is, he had help." His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "What do our spies say about Damir Larath? I was suspicious of his coming so close to our borders in the first place."

"He is still in Braedon, milord. He was apparently ill, but has recovered."
"You're certain?"
"He was spotted just a day ago at a public ceremony, milord."

Bhakir swore. "I would have been willing to wager he was involved directly in this —it's just the sort of thing I'd expect from him. Too clean. But I suppose not. Indirectly, though . .." His voice trailed off. Castyll might already be well on his way to Byrn. Time, then, to take the hunt to Braedon, and watch for him there. And, mused the counselor to himself, if the young king of Mhar were indeed in Braedon, then in a very few days, Bhakir's worries would be over.

"My lord Bhakir!" The voice was youthful, strong, the voice of one used to being obeyed. Bhakir stiffened, then turned slowly in the saddle to see who had hailed him.

Striding up boldly to him and his guards was the Blesser of Vengeance. "We have business, you and I." The face turned up to Bhakir was handsome, with thick black brows and a strong mouth. Anger snapped in the dark eyes.

Bhakir looked around uneasily. Several people had paused to look at the unusual sight. Mentally, Bhakir cursed the man a thousand times, then smiled ingratiatingly. "Greetings, Blesser. And what business might that be?"

The Blesser had reached him now. His arms were folded and he stared at the mounted counselor. 'The business of blasphemy."

Bhakir felt a chill. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"My god has revealed to me that you are taking his name in vain. That you are doing something of which he does not approve. You may tread men beneath your heel, my lord, but you defy a god at your dreadful peril. Especially when that god is the mighty and implacable Vengeance."

Bhakir looked concerned. "If I have offended, then I ask forgiveness and to be shown what it is that I have done wrong. Blesser, will you come to Seacliff tonight and pray with me?"

The man's tense face relaxed somewhat. "Well," he said, slightly mollified, "I am bound by my oaths to help those who ask for it. Very well. I will be there at sunset. But don't think that false piety will spare the Sword of Vengeance," he added.

"Of course not," replied Bhakir. "Truly, I would atone for whatever sins I may have committed. May I expect you at sunset?"

The Blesser's eyes searched Bhakir's face, then he nodded. Bhakir inclined his head, then gently squeezed his mount, continuing the ride. He said nothing to his guards, and after a moment, the one on the right rode ahead while the one on his left slowed, then circled back, per their lord's instructions. The mind-reader kicked his mount and came to ride alongside Bhakir. The counselor remained silent. There was no way of knowing what the Blesser really knew. Not yet.

But come sunset, Bhakir would have Garith use his "methods of persuasion" on the man. And then, when they had learned all there was to learn, Bhakir would order the Blesser killed. He'd gone too far to let one loose-tongued, arrogant priest ruin it all.

Alone with her young Tenders, the Blesser of Love brushed out her long hair thoughtfully. Things were very unsettled. Perhaps she needed some advice from another.

"I think I will go visit Love's Blesser in Jarmair," she said to her Tenders. "Can you ready my things for the trip?"

Deveren drummed his fingers on the table. He had no interest in the fine food before him, but he absently watched Kyle eat heartily.

The resemblance truly was uncanny. With the wig, putty nose and other makeup tricks, Kyle was almost a mirror image of Damir. He had most of the gestures down and had captured Damir's precise manner of speaking. If Deveren closed his eyes slightly, it could indeed almost be Damir across from him at the table. Kyle had even managed to fool the servants by keeping out of their way as much as possible. When he did come in contact with them, it was usually only at meals—times when the servants' attention was occupied by the food and the serving of it, not in looking closely at their master's brother.

The first two public appearances —token things, really— had gone off without a hitch. Fortunately there had been no parties, nothing involving people who knew Damir well and would have a chance to speak with Kyle at length and up close. If only Damir would return in time for the Midsummer Festival, all would be well.

Traditionally, Braedon's Midsummer Festival was a time of good-natured cheer and banter. Deveren, though, had now been with the thieves long enough to know that it was also a prime opportunity for crime. But even the thieves of Braedon seemed to get into the joyful spirit of things. He knew of no violent crimes that had been perpetrated during the event over the past years. A great many thefts, yes, but no murders or even attacks.

This year, he mused darkly, staring into his goblet of wine, could well be different. There had been one attempt on his life. There ought to be more. The very lack of a second attempt at murder had Deveren unsettled. There could only be one reason—he was no longer deemed a threat. And
that
was actually even a more frightening thought. It meant that whoever had tried to kill him now felt it was no longer necessary to remove him—that the would-be killer had found another means to his goal.

The rat.

Deveren suppressed a shudder. If one of his thieves was trafficking in that sort of dark magic, then Deveren knew he was right to be afraid.

Who was it? Freylis? Khem, who had kept to himself and whom Deveren didn't know well? Someone else?

He took a gulp of the wine. It didn't help.

"Your pardon, Lord Larath," came the voice of Millia, the cook's young daughter. "But... there's someone come to see you."

"Who is it?" asked Deveren, tensing.

The girl frowned. "It's . . . it's a child, sir." Deveren smothered a grin at the slightly superior tone of voice. Millia was a child herself, a mere ten years of age. "She says she comes from the Blesser of Health with news."

Hope flooded through Deveren. "Very good, Millia. Send her in to the library and I'll speak with her there. No doubt," he added for the benefit of Millia, Kyle, and other ears which might be listening, "she brings a cure for those nasty headaches I've been having."

A few moments later, Millia showed Allika to the library. It was all Deveren could do not to gape openly at the change wrought by just two days in the Blesser's charge.

She was clothed in a simple but clean brown dress, probably loaned from one of Vervain's tenders. Her face was clean, showing Deveren for the first time how white and pink her skin was. Her shortcropped black hair had been combed into obedience, and gleamed. On her feet were small brown boots, and her back was straight. Her eyes sparkled with delight and she rushed into Deveren's arms, hugging him.

"Don't I look pretty?" she crowed immodestly.

"Little Squirrel, you look beautiful," he told her truthfully, planting a kiss on shiny black hair that smelled of herbs and sunlight.

She grinned, and it warmed Deveren's heart to see the impish sparkle in her eyes again. He'd feared that her laughter and sense of play had burned to ashes along with her beloved doll, but clearly that was not the case. "Vervain has been taking good care of you."

"She's nice," agreed Allika readily. "She's tired, though. She stays up late and gets up early. Got black circles round her eyes."

"I don't doubt it," said Deveren.
"But she says to tell you that she's got good news. She says," and Allika thought carefully before continuing, "she says, Tell Deveren that I believe I have perfected the tinc— tincture—but I will need to test it on someone. Ask Deveren if he knows of anyone who would be willing to undergo such a test. I don't think it will be harmful, even if it doesn't work.' That's what she said."

And Deveren was certain it was, word for word. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Allika waited patiently. Deveren again marveled at the sight of her, remembering the angry, violent, squalling creature he had lugged by sheer physical force to the Healer's temple; recalled her rage, her pain when she tried to apologize—

Suddenly Deveren's thoughts flashed back to that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. He saw again Pedric standing in front of him, screaming angrily, froth on his lips and hate in his eyes. The poisonous, cruel words sounded again in his ears.

To the Nightlands with Lorinda! She's dead, Deveren, dead, and the dead are nothing but dirt. There's no purity in rot. Gods, Dev, couldn't you smell her as we brought the coffin by? . .. There's nothing left of her now but decaying flesh ... and the hope that I can somehow do to her killers what they did to her. So you can just take your wine and your talk and leave me alone!

He remembered with growing horror how Pedric had at first gentled at Deveren's sympathy, then doubled over in pain to emerge twice as bitter. And he remembered the youth fidgeting and scratching ...

Deveren had been blinded by the memory of his own aching loss. He had thought Pedric merely suffering from grief and the natural anger at the violent crime. Now he realized that something far darker and dreadfully unnatural had been at work.

"Dear gods," he said softly. Poor Pedric ...
"What?" asked Allika anxiously.

"Nothing you need to worry about, sweeting. Go back to Vervain and tell her I will be there tonight with . . . with someone to test her tincture."

It was with a lie that Deveren coaxed Pedric into the streets and out of his drunken isolation. A lie that Pedric believed because he wanted to believe it; believed because the curse that raged through him believed that everyone was as filled with hatred as he was.

I know who murdered Lorinda. I know where we can find them. And I will help you kill them.
A feral light had come into Pedric's aged-looking, unshaved face; illuminated his haunted eyes, red-rimmed with drink and sleepless nights.

Yes,
he had answered.
Let us kill them.
Words that Deveren had never thought to hear emerge from Pedric's cultured throat. And off they had gone, into the quiet darkness of the night. Pedric had laughed wildly, eager for blood and revenge. It was only the knowledge that Pedric was not truly responsible for his thoughts and actions that kept Deveren's heart from breaking for his friend.

They made their way through the city, and Pedric slowed as Deveren led him to the temple of Health. He stopped in front of the little gate and turned to stare suspiciously at Deveren. "At Health's temple?" he asked, incredulous.

Please let this work,
Deveren said to himself. Aloud, he said, "They are injured. They will be easy prey." He stretched his mouth into a smile. "We can subdue them with our bare hands."

That temptation proved to be too much for Pedric. He smiled himself, and inwardly Deveren drew back from the simple evil in that smile.
How close we all are to evil,
he thought.
How terribly, dreadfully close.
"Come," he said, inviting Pedric to go in front of him.