King's Man and Thief (9 page)

Vandaris had paled and his bright eyes had grown enormous. Damir wondered if the old man might have a seizure. Instead, he began laughing, and color flooded his pallid face. "You lay down all the cards, don't you?"

Damir remained unruffled, smiling slightly. "Hardly," he replied. "What kind of a gambler would I be if I did? And you haven't answered my question."

Suddenly Damir sensed a presence. Simultaneously, behind Vandaris, a small, pale face appeared in the window. No, it was two small faces—one that of a child, the other the grinning visage of the stuffed doll she carried. He knew who it had to be at once.
By Love's smile,
Damir thought to himself,
she does look like my Talitha.
Horror transformed the hunger-sharpened features of the girl as she realized that she was locking gazes not with Deveren, as she had clearly expected, but with Damir. She quickly ducked out of sight.

Damir's face moved not a muscle as, waiting for Vandaris's reply, he moved casually over to the window and leaned against it, his hands linked loosely behind his back. "Can we count on your cooperation—and discretion?"

"I'd need to see some sort of proof that this will occur," Vandaris hedged. "And I'd need to be able to speak to a few of my men—the ones I'd trust with my own life."

Damir hesitated. He was used to ordering, not asking, but the situation was delicate and risky. "Very well. I have documents in my room, signed by His Majesty. I'm sure that you recognize the royal seal. As for your men, I'd like the names of those whom you feel you can trust before you speak with them. I have to make certain that I can trust them, too. I'm sure you understand."

Damir kept his voice level as he opened one palm toward the window. He felt a small piece of parchment scratch along his hand and he closed his fingers around the note. It crinkled audibly, and Damir spoke to cover the sound.

"If you would accompany me, I'm sure I can assuage your doubts."

"Not that I don't believe you," began Vandaris, concern crossing his still handsome, honest face. "It's merely that I cannot commit the Council or the town of Braedon without being absolutely certain."

"I understand perfectly. I'd expect the same myself. Caution has saved many a life —and reputation." He moved away from the window and extended his empty hand toward the door. Vandaris nodded and moved ahead of him. Damir followed after, casting a swift glance back toward the window. The little ghost-girl was gone. Quickly he unfolded the note and read it rapidly, crumpling it back into his palm when he had finished.

He walked alongside Vandaris as they re-entered the throng. Before they went to the spare room that served as Damir's chambers, Damir paused to talk to his brother, who raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Vandaris and I will be in my room if you need me." Casually he touched Deveren's hand as he spoke. His face as nonchalant as his brother's, Deveren took the note. No one noticed the transaction. Deveren waited a few moments, excused himself from his guests and stepped outside. When he was certain he was alone, he unfolded the missive.

Fox
—
The Fox is clever, the Fox is wise;
The Fox is getting a big surprise
—
Because your Theft is not one, but three
If truly our Leader you wish to be.
We leave to you the how and when,
But the where must be the councilman's den.

The Fox gives Fox a taste quite fine, When out of his head you drink your wine.
The hounds will chase, the hounds will tear Your flesh, unless their teeth you bear.

And last, the Fox of his brush is proud
—
But Vixen and Vandaris might not allow The Fox to acquire his one, two, three But if you fail, a mere thief you'll be.

Deveren cursed softly to himself. He recognized the ornate, flowing script of his friend Pedric, and was willing to bet money that the feckless young man had been the one to both compose the poem and name the items. A few things about the note he would need to puzzle out later, but he'd guessed two things immediately. All the items were obviously in Vandaris's home—the words "councilman's den" made that clear. The phrase "might not allow" indicated to him that the objects had to be taken while the family was present. He reread the note, memorizing it, and shook his head. "His" thieves were clearly not going to let him off easily. He reached up to one of the lamps that hung outside the door and placed the parchment inside. A sudden voice at his ear caused him to start violently, almost burning his fingers as the paper caught and flamed.

"Well, Tomai," Damir said with a hint of humor in his smooth, cultured voice, "enjoy slaying the tiger in his own lair. I, of course, expect you to return the items as soon as you can." As Deveren sputtered his annoyance, Damir grinned wickedly and ducked back inside. As soon as the door had closed, Allika poked her head round a corner.

"He knew what to do, Fox!" she apologized as he glared at her. "He went right up to the window and stuck his hand out, and I knew your brother was in town, and I thought. . ." Her voice grew thick. She gazed up at him, remorse all over her face, Miss Lally trailing in the dirt.

Deveren squatted down to her level and smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Little Squirrel. No harm done this time. But in the future, if you have notes for me, give them only to me, all right?" She nodded, and smiled again. Like a shadow, she vanished from sight.

When Deveren returned to the bustle of the gala a few moments later, he saw that Pedric was deep in conversation with the radiant Lorinda. More than that, he'd managed to get the girl to hang on his words as much as Pedric hung on hers. Deveren maneuvered himself close enough to catch the drift of their conversation.

Pedric's normal expression at a social gathering was that of a slightly bored aristocrat who had heard everything worth listening to. Deveren noticed that the youth looked now as he did during particularly dangerous "outings," his eyes sparkling and his face flushed with excited color. His normally controlled movements were large and effusive as he gestured excitedly.

"And then the Queen, clutching both bloodied daggers, cries out, 'Ah, gods! They were not my enemy's children—
they were mine!'
"

Lorinda, enraptured, gasped sympathetically. "The Elf-King tricked her into killing her own children? Oh, how awful!"

Deveren was not disturbed by the blood-drenched conversation. He recognized it as a scene from
The Queen of All,
a play that had just opened at His Majesty's Theater. Both he and Pedric were patrons of the show, and it was playing to a house that did not have a single empty seat for any of its performances.

"Yes!" Pedric yelped, thoroughly entrenched in his story. He plopped down beside Lorinda and continued. "And then there's a big flash and puff of smoke, and Lady Death appears. She's willing to make a bargain with the Queen for the lives of her two children, you see, and—"

"Pedric, Pedric!" Deveren admonished jokingly, laying a friendly hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It's one thing to give a play an enthusiastic review. It's quite another to spoil the plot for someone—you'll lose a sale that way, and that's bad for business!"

"On the contrary, Lord Larath," Lorinda responded. "I wish I could see
The Queen of All
more than ever! Do you know, I've never seen a theatrical performance in my life?"

"Goodness, how barbaric you servants of the gods are," said Pedric teasingly. Lorinda laughed. "Well, I will personally escort you to the next play that comes into town. Unfortunately for your theatrical edification, and not unfortunately for our purses,
The Queen of All
has no seats left for the rest of its run."

Deveren smiled. An idea had just come to him—a wonderful, perfect idea. "Well, at least not its public run," he said.

Lorinda turned her gorgeous eyes on him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the Councilman's Seat has a large hall, doesn't it?" Deveren was referring to the honorary domicile of the Head Councilman, the beautiful, sprawling building that was home to Vandaris and, now, Lorinda.

Pedric's eyes lit up even brighter as he comprehended what Deveren was suggesting. "Of course it does! Oh, Deveren, you clever fellow!"

"What?" Lorinda, the novice theatergoer, was confused.

"A command performance," Deveren explained. "Your father, as Head Councilman, has the right to invite any thespian or musician to perform exclusively at the Councilman's Seat. He could ask the cast of
The Queen of All
to do the play on Lisdae, a night they traditionally have off."

"That sounds wonderful!" Lorinda clapped her hands together in an unconsciously childlike gesture. "Would they mind? I mean, they might be looking forward to a night to relax..."

"We'll make it a celebration," suggested Pedric. Deveren grinned to himself. Only Pedric would have had the audacity to volunteer someone else's home—and a councilman's home at that—for a celebration. "It won't be as nice as Dev's, of course, but then, no one's festivities compare to Deveren's."

"I'd be inclined to agree," said Lorinda, gazing warmly at the young man. "After all, it's where you and I met."

Deveren glanced from one youthful face to the other. His heart sank. Much as he enjoyed being around young lovers, he knew that this was a bad match. Pedric might be the younger son of a nobleman, and titled in his own right, but his habits and temperament suited his true occupation—that of professional thief. And Lorinda was grounded in the highest morals, thanks to her time as a Tender, and was a councilman's daughter as well. No, it was bound to end badly. He only hoped it wouldn't end with Pedric's slim, aristocratic neck in a noose.

Lorinda's eyes left Pedric's long enough to register that her father and Damir were returning. "There he is! Let me go ask him right now. Oh, I do hope he'll say yes!" With the carefree enthusiasm of an adolescent, she gathered up the long, floor-length folds of her gown and literally ran to her father. Deveren heard Pedric gasp, softly and poignantly, as the younger man caught a glimpse of long, strong, tanned legs tapering to small, slipper-covered feet.

"You could break your heart over a girl like that," said Pedric quietly.

"Well, damn it, don't," Deveren warned. The words sounded hard; he changed the subject. "Thank you for giving me the idea about the play. The theater gathering will be a wonderful opportunity for me to complete my ... job."

Vandaris and Lorinda were too far away for Deveren and Pedric to catch their conversation, but it appeared that the father couldn't resist his daughter's pleas. His face softened as he listened to her animated chatter, one gnarled, strong hand reaching to smooth a dark curl away from her high forehead in a gesture of paternal affection.

"You're welcome, though I hardly did it for your sake," Pedric replied. "And by the way, Dev, if you don't return her brush, I'll come looking for it on her behalf."

So that was what the cryptic rhyme about the "fox's brush" meant. He wondered if Pedric had deliberately given him the clue, glanced at the boy's face, and decided that the slip was unintentional. "And how did you know about this?" yelped Deveren in mock outrage. Pedric turned his gaze back to his friend and grinned wickedly.

"Well," he said modestly, "I wrote the damn thing, didn't I?"

For my Chosen in this world walk a perilous path: My Sword of Vengeance cuts both ways, protecting the wrongly accused and destroying those who have trespassed.
Those who would be my Blessers must be strong men indeed, to wield so powerful a weapon as this. 

—from the Tenets of Vengeance

There were no windows in Jemma's cell. She was utterly cut off from the world outside, from the green things of nature that for so long had been a daily part of her life. She could not estimate the passage of the hours, nor the rise and set of the sun. The guards, huge and silent, deliberately brought her meager meals at irregular intervals, to further confuse her. As best the aged Healer could guess, she had been in Seacliff s dungeon for five days.

The cell was tiny, with barely enough room for her to stretch out. Old straw that smelled of rot served her for a bed, though moments of sleep were few, as her inflamed joints allowed her little rest. Torches burned in the hallway but not in her cell; the only light Jemma had was what little managed to creep through the small, barred window of the wooden door.

She clutched herself and shivered vainly against the damp cold. The elderly Healer was almost beginning to look forward to the interrogation, which was, no doubt, exactly what her captors intended. Why were they postponing it? One man who had mind magic could have gotten everything from her. She wondered, with a faint burst of hope, if perhaps Bhakir was unaware of her communications with Castyll.
Please, gods, let it be so . . .
But that was false hope speaking. Bhakir would have no other reason to have taken her.

She heard the booted footfalls of the guards, and readied herself. The heavy bolt, ludicrously strong against so feeble an inmate, slammed back and the door opened. Jemma winced at the torchlight, even its faint illumination painful to eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness.

"Come, old woman," one of the big men growled. Jemma tried to rise, but found that her knees would not let her. The guard, impatient, reached out a beefy hand and hauled her to her feet. Despite herself, Jemma cried out as the pain exploded in her knees and elbows.

"Shut your mouth, old bitch, or I'll shut it for you."

Jemma stifled her sounds of agony, for she had no doubt that the man was serious. The ungentle guard half led, half dragged her along the narrow corridor until he reached a much larger room. This door stood open, and several torches illuminated the interior. A brazier glowed invitingly. Jemma noticed that the stone floor was covered with sawdust, rather than the more common rushes, and the room was furnished with a rough-hewn wooden table and stools. Cloths covered items that hung from the walls and made odd-shaped bulges on the floor, but Jemma was not interested in the furnishings. A plate of bread, fruit, and cheese, and a pitcher of milk sat atop the table, and her mouth suddenly flooded with moisture in anticipation of real food.