King's man and thief

CHAPTER TWO

"How art thou my brother?" asked the Sun.

"Thy light is not like mine, nor thy magics."

"Ah, " replied the Moon, "yet we both rule the skies, and shine our lights upon Mankind, do we not?"

— from Tales of the Sun and Moon

For a long moment, Deveren simply stood, staring foolishly. One hand tightly gripped the cold metal of the wrought iron fence. Reason seeped back into his paralyzed limbs and he sprinted around the side, heading for the back of his house, away from the room with the lighted candle. Quickly he climbed the fence and jumped down, landing as quietly as possible in the soft grass. Hidden in the shadows now, he hastened for the shelter of the building's walls, flattening himself against the cold stone, listening, his body taut as a bowstring. Perspiration dampened his face. There was no sound, no evidence that he had been noticed.

The room to his immediate left was his library. It was dark, and far enough back from the lighted window so that even if he made sounds, he wouldn't be heard. But Deveren intended to make no noise. He crouched beneath the wooden sill and reached his hand up, pressing two fingers against the window. Deveren concentrated on stilling his racing thoughts, and visualized the window unlocking. He did not have to raise his head to know that his meager hand magic hadn't worked. Had he been able to lay even a single finger on the lock itself, he could have managed it. As it was, the additional barrier of the glass, frail as it was, was an obstacle that prevented him from opening the window.

He dropped down again and pressed his back flat against the stone. Sometimes, Deveren thought with a hint of disgust, plain old burglary was more efficient than magic. He fumbled in his pouch. Deveren had a bad habit of never emptying his pouch from night to night or theft to theft. Had he not already been a thief, he would, contrary to what he had told the guards, have been a prime candidate for robbery; the deceptively simple pouch he wore at his side was crammed full of valuables.

Now his bad habit had become an unexpected blessing. Fumbling blindly in the pouch, his questing fingers found a ring whose stone was not embedded in its golden circle but rather jutted up proudly. He closed his eyes in relief. Stones set in such a manner, Deveren knew, were most usually diamonds. He pulled the ring out, then turned to the window.

Working by touch, he pressed back the soft gold prongs that held the gem in place and removed it. Cupping the diamond in his palm, he felt for its sharpest edge. He held the ring in his left hand and, holding the small jewel carefully between his right thumb and forefinger, reinserted the diamond into its setting so that the sharp edge faced out. Then he pressed closed the golden prongs. Grasping the ring, Deveren cut a small hole in the glass, just large enough to put his two fingers through. He pushed gently, and the small circle of cut glass dropped soundlessly to the rushes beneath.

Deveren bent forward and placed his ear to the hole, listening. Silence. He smiled, his confidence returning. If he, a skilled thief, couldn't even break into his own house without being detected, he had no right to be leader. He reached in, unlocked the window in a totally nonmagical manner, and eased it open.

He was halfway inside the room when the voice nearly stopped his heart.

"If only our mother were here to see this."

Deveren knew that voice. Relief flooded him, replaced almost immediately by a combination of delight and irritation.

"Damn you, Damir," he growled, grinning, as he swung his other leg into the room, "I have cats that are noisier than you!"

Damir had already lit a candle — the light that had “warned” Deveren about possible “assassins”-and by its flickering light Deveren saw that his older brother was laughing at the trick he'd played. The two embraced with real warmth, although Deveren did land a good-natured punch to Damir's thin arm.

There was little about their appearances to alert the casual stranger that there was so intimate a bond between the two men. Deveren, boyish and well built, stood a good four inches taller than his "big" brother. His hair was a light brown, only slightly touched with gray, while Damir's thinning locks were a deep, rich mink color. Damir was slight and elegant; Deveren, slender, but athletic. Only their hands, with their long, thin fingers, and their eyes, a bright, knowing hazel, were the same. That, and their quick minds.

"Do you know how much a pane of glass costs?" said Deveren.

"I'll pay for it," Damir offered. "It's worth every penny just to have watched you sneaking about like that. You're slipping, Dev. If I had been waiting to kill you, I'd hardly have lit a candle to announce my presence."

Deveren was so embarrassed he actually blushed. Of course. Any other night, he would have realized that at once. But so soon after the massacre, he was understandably on edge.

"Pray tell, Ambassador Larath, what brings you to the fair city of Braedon?" he asked Damir, changing the subject as he led his brother out from the library into the dining area. "I'd heard that King Emrys wasn't doing so well, and thought you wouldn't be too far from his side. Come on, let's get something to eat. Sudden fear followed by intense pleasure always makes me hungry."

He reached for a bowl of fruit on the table in the dining room, seizing a fragrant peach and biting into it. Deveren's dining room would more appropriately be called a hall. The table at which he plopped himself so casually would easily sit twenty-four, and it stretched grandly into the superbly decorated room. Despite the fine old furniture, the lovely statues of elf-maidens and noble warriors, and the high, vaulted ceiling, the place, like its owner, was friendly rather than overwhelming. Damir, used to even more sumptuous surroundings than his brother's abode, followed his sibling's relaxed example. He eased into a plush chair, studied the bowl of fruit, and helped himself to a bunch of grapes.

"Actually," Damir began slowly, fingering the fruit rather than plucking it, "you bring me here."

Deveren nearly choked on his peach. "Me?" he mumbled. "Sweet Health, don't tell me your spies know about the election already!" Damir's position was, officially, that of an ambassador. Deveren knew that his brother's actual role in the function of government was far more important and far more dangerous. Damir had at his command a vast network of spies-though he liked to use the term "information gatherers."

Damir arched a thin, aristocratic eyebrow. "Election? Why, no. You'll have to tell me all about it later. No, I came to make sure that you were… all right." His eyes, bright as a sparrow's, met his brother's evenly.

All traces of mirth and welcome vanished from Deveren's countenance. He was silent for a long, tense moment, and when he at last spoke his voice was like ice.

"If you ordered that raid on the Whale's Tail Desdae night," he said slowly, "then you are not welcome in my home."

"Of course not, Dev!" The undisguised hurt and anger in Damir's normally modulated voice was proof enough for Deveren, and his posture relaxed. "You know I have no say in matters of that nature."

"But you knew it was going to happen, didn't you?"

His thin face still tense, Damir nodded. Deveren swore.

"I have no control over… that branch of the government," Damir continued. "I didn't even know who was… who had survived and who hadn't. I wanted to send you a mind-warning, but-" "Braedon is too far away," Deveren finished his brother's sentence. He knew the limits of Damir's mind magic. Damir nodded, his eyes searching Deveren's.

"Gods, Dev, I couldn't even sense if you were still alive! I left home the minute I knew what they were planning. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered!"

Deveren looked down at his reflection in the highly polished wood of the table. "Sorry. But Damir-I lost friends that night."

The older man sighed and popped a grape into his mouth. "I realize that," he said in a calmer voice, after he had swallowed. "You wouldn't have if you'd stayed away from that group as I advised you to."

Deveren suddenly seemed to develop a great interest in finishing his peach and fell silent. Damir narrowed his eyes. Deveren could practically see wheels turning in his brother's head as realization dawned on Damir's face.

"Election," he said softly. "Please, Dev, tell me that what I'm thinking is wrong. Tell me you've been voted head of the local garden appreciation guild, or something like that."

"Sorry." He wasn't.

Damir sighed and rubbed his face for a long moment. "Deveren," he said gently, "it won't bring Kastara back."

The younger man flinched ever so slightly. Even now, seven years later, any mention of her name was painful to him. After Kastara's brutal murder, Deveren had gone slightly mad. The law officials could find nothing. Deveren became a constant fixture at the guard's offices, haranguing them daily, desperate for any sort of hope at which to grasp. Even Damir, with his vast network of spies and informants at hand, couldn't help.

When four months went by and they were still no closer to solving the crime, the law gradually began to cut back on the amount of time, money, and manpower it was pouring into the case. So it was that Deveren had initially turned to the other side of the law for justice, seeking out and joining the thieves of the city. He had hoped to uncover Kastara's killer, and exact retribution. "I know it won't bring her back," Deveren said after a moment. "I never did find her murderer, and I don't think I ever will. I'm reconciled to that."

Damir frowned, honestly puzzled. "Then why…"

"In my years of involvement with the thieves, I've learned something about them," Deveren continued. "Some who call themselves thieves are killers, but not all of them. While some look out only for themselves, others care about the group as a whole and as individuals. I've discovered that there's a sense of community, of, of- family in this group. Damir-among the people at the Whale's Tail was a little girl. Did you know that?"

Damir nodded. "I understand that the leader of the raid spared her life. His orders were to kill everyone in the building, but he hadn't expected to find children. When I heard, I was glad the man was wise enough not to follow those particular orders to the letter."

"So am I," said Deveren fervently. "She's a charming little thing — reminds me of your Talitha when she was that age. As leader, I have an enormous influence over how this group develops over the next few years."

A smile tugged at the diplomat's lips. "Ah, yes, the thieves of Braedon. They run a charity auction and orphanage-always donate to worthy causes. Did I mention the Fund for Wayward Kittens?"

The humor was misplaced, and a cloud came over Deveren's face. "A lot of people in that group are hungry. A lot of people are desperately poor. And you know as well as I do that if you really wanted to wipe out crime, you'd do it. One more 'purge' like the Whale's Tail and you'd have the rest of us. And speaking of crime," and Deveren's voice cracked like a whip, "I think the planned murder of seventeen people without benefit of trial isn't exactly legal!"

He rose and grabbed a bottle of wine that was on the sideboard. The bottle, an excellent vintage imported from Mhar, had been opened for a dinner earlier that week and the cork replaced. Deveren glanced about for something with which to extract the cork, found nothing immediately to hand, gripped the cork with his teeth and tugged. There was a slight pop. He poured himself a goblet of wine with a hand that trembled, and drained the glass.

Still angry, he placed the bottle on the table with a thump. Damir regarded it for a moment, arching a thin eyebrow. Then, to his brother's astonishment, he took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank directly from the neck.

Deveren stared, then broke into a loud, whooping laugh. The sight of formal, elegant Damir, who knew which eating implement went with which course and what side the wine was served on, guzzling like a sewer drunk was too ludicrous for any other reaction. Neatly, without spilling a drop, Damir finished his drink and set the bottle down on the table. He smiled slightly.

"I never liked for you to best me, not even in bad manners," he said drily.

They were friends again. "Here," said Deveren, the bright bubble of mirth still in his voice, "let me get you a glass."

For a time, the talk turned to topics lighter, safer, than theft or murder or espionage. The brothers talked of children, and crops, and new plays, and bardic festivals. They finished each other's sentences, laughed at each other's jokes, and drank in fraternal closeness. At last, Damir glanced at the candle, now burning low, and then outside at the lightening sky.

"I'm going to stay here awhile, Dev, if I may," he said.

"Aha, I knew there was another reason for your visit. I didn't think it was simply brotherly concern that had you rushing all the way out here."

"It was, truly," said Damir. "But I… well, I'll be frank with you. Your… hobby might be useful. And while I'm not overly happy at your recent promotion to leader, I confess that I could use your help in that capacity."

Deveren's eyebrows shot up.

"If you mean what you say about helping the thieves of your city gain a little self-respect, here's an excellent chance to begin. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but…" Damir sighed. "You know of the planned marriage between our Princess Cimarys and the young prince of Mhar, Castyll?"

"Good gods, they've been betrothed since they were in their cradles!" snorted Deveren. "Well, yes. But judging from the letters that have passed between them over the last year or so, it's developing into a love match."

"You read royal love letters?"

Damir looked slightly embarrassed. "It's one of my duties, yes. Anyway, Castyll sent a terse note a few days ago, terminating the betrothal."

Deveren shrugged. "Now that his father's dead, maybe he doesn't have to pretend he's fond of Cimarys anymore." He thought of the young Byrnian princess, barely fourteen but already graced with a womanly beauty. A smile tugged at his lips. "Send him a recent portrait of Cimmy. That should bring him to his senses."

Damir sighed. "Dev, could you be serious for once? Since King Shahil's death two months ago, a lot has happened in Mhar. A lot," he added, "that does not bode well for future relationships with Byrn."

Deveren was listening now. Mhar lay only a few leagues to the south, barely a day's travel by ship and only three days by horse. It was the nearest major city, closer even than the closest Byrnian city. War with Mhar would be a dangerous thing for Braedon.

"Such as?" he prompted. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. Had he indeed been the Fox that he was named for, his ears would have been pricked forward.

Pleased that he had gotten his brother's full attention, Damir launched into specifics. "First of all, they haven't had a coronation for young Castyll. He's fifteen, certainly of age to take the throne. Oh, they're calling him king, all right, but it's obvious that his power exists in name only. He and King Shahil went to Ilantha to stay at the traditional summer palace. Castyll ought to have returned to the capital city of Jarmair immediately upon the death of his father-but he's staying, finishing out the season, just as if nothing's wrong. That's hardly like the boy, from what I know of him. One of his father's counselors, a rather slimy fellow named Bhakir, is regent. It looks like he's the one in charge."

"What about the other advisors?" queried Deveren. Like Byrn, in Mhar the king's rule was tempered by a circle of "advisors" who wielded certain powers of their own. Damir smiled without humor.

"Such sad accidents," he said in a cool, polite tone that sent shivers up Deveren's spine. "Such dreadful illnesses. We've had trouble with Bhakir in the past, and now that he's in charge we expect more. This sudden end to an engagement that would bring the countries closer together would be suspicious at any time-and it's made even more so by the, uh, clearly genuine interest these two young people seem to have in each other."

"But Mhar would benefit by an alliance with us," said Deveren, confused. "Why — " "Mhar would," Damir clarified, "but Bhakir wouldn't."

Deveren nodded slowly. "So you've got a delayed coronation and a broken love match. What else?"

"Bhakir's been making changes in the top ranks of the military, both land and sea," continued Damir. "It would seem that many hitherto trusted generals and admirals were traitors. How lucky that Bhakir discovered their fiendish plots." If irony were a real substance, Damir's would have burned holes through the beautiful table.

Deveren whistled. "The bastard wants war, doesn't he?"

"Looks like it. I've been able to get a few messages to and from the beleaguered young prince, though. He wants to set up secret negotiations between his core group of supporters and Byrn, as represented by me."

"And you want me to see that Braedon would be a safe port," Deveren concluded. "Well, you have to admit, having you as the leader of the thieves just might ensure that there would be no criminal incidents, should we host the meetings here."

Deveren nodded. "I don't think it'd be a problem."

"Then your thieves will take kindly to being told 'don't touch'?" Damir teased.

Now it was Deveren's turn to be deadly serious. "They'll take kindly to preventing war with Mhar. Sweet Lady Death, Damir, Braedon would be their first target. If they could get hold of our seaport.." He didn't even need to finish the thought. He didn't really want to.

"These talks could be of great import," Damir warned.

"Obviously."

"Prince Castyll himself might come."

"Then he can stay at the King's Arms Inn," quipped Deveren, reaching for the wine goblet and lifting it to his lips.

"He might want to pay… an extended visit. A very extended visit."

Deveren nearly choked on the ruby-red liquid.

Pedric was having a dreadful night.

Marrika had been stonily silent since she and Pedric had left the thieves' meeting. At first, the young man had respected her silence, but when it dragged on for a quarter of an hour he began to grow annoyed. He tried to take her arm, but she jerked it away. Annoyance blossomed into anger. He seized her arm, securely this time, propelled her over to a quiet alleyway, and demanded, "What in the Nightlands is wrong with you?"

It was dark, but by the moonlight that filtered its way down past the buildings he could see the rage on her beautiful face. She didn't answer with words, but snarled angrily. Pedric was thoroughly startled when he felt a stinging slap on his cheek. Automatically, his soft aristocrat's hand went to rub the painful area.

"You are such an idiot, Pedric Dunsan!"

"I'm not idiot enough to go shouting our true names in public!" he hissed back.

She sneered. "So it's Otter, huh? Well, for seven months I've been your woman, and I haven't seen you do a damned thing that a trained otter couldn't do. You humiliated me tonight!" She made a slack-jawed fool's face. "Uh, sometimes that comes in handy," she mimicked cruelly.

Pedric felt his face growing hot, and not just from the angry slap. "I'm not a very good public speaker," he said.

She laughed, a harsh, angry sound. "You're not very good at much, Pedric, except spending your papa's money."

"I've earned my place in the group," he began in a low, controlled voice.

"You bought your way in, rich boy, and everybody knows it. Good gods, even Deveren's made a haul or two worth something. You just show up with that worthless art stuff-"

"— at any auction, that so-called worthless stuff would fetch-"

"We're not an auction house, Pedric, or haven't you noticed? We're thieves! We steal, and we kill, and that's what we do, that's what we are." Suddenly she laughed. "Well, I suppose I've got no one but myself to blame. Somehow I thought you'd do something with yourself. You had the perfect chance tonight. Everyone likes you, though I don't know why. If you'd been able to speak like a real man, you'd have won easily."

Pedric had gone beyond anger into open-mouthed shock. Marrika was a beautiful, sensuous woman. She had arrived in Braedon only a few months before, on a ship from Mhar. She'd been the first mate's woman then, but when the ship sailed back to its home port, Marrika had been in Pedric's bed, not on the vessel. Her hair was ebony, her skin tanned, and the movements of her body promised the ripeness of fruit newly plucked from the vine. She delivered on such a promise, and until this moment Pedric had assumed that he was the center of her universe. Despite her accusations, Pedric was far from being an idiot, and it was blindingly clear to him now that she did not desire him, had never desired him, and had attached herself to him only as the suckerfish to the shark. Had he won tonight, he wouldn't have been able to pry her off him. She would be all supple warmth and hot breath, sloe-eyed and eager for him. Now her fluid movements were stiff and frozen, and she was as cold as a breath of winter in the summertime, all the more chilling for its unexpectedness.

He hadn't loved her. Pedric didn't think he could love anybody; he was too frivolous, and he knew it. Losing the election tonight had been an enormous relief. He hadn't wanted the position in the first place, had only reluctantly volunteered because it seemed important to Marrika. No, he hadn't loved her, but he had liked and admired her. She was the first woman he had ever known who wasn't all aflutter with false courtesies and faintness. Marrika hadn't hidden her sharp intelligence nor her ambition from him, but had rather turned these attributes into ones to be admired. Now he realized that they were not virtues after all-not the way she used them.

His expression changed again, from shock to mild disgust. "Lucky thing I lost, isn't it," he said archly. "Not only would I have had to deal with responsibilities I didn't want and, as an idiot, couldn't have handled, but I'd have had to sleep with you again tonight. What a narrow escape."

He turned and walked back toward Ocean's View.

Marrika realized with a jolt that it really didn't matter to Pedric if she stayed or left. Her mouth dropped. She'd left men before, left them begging for her to come back. Less often, they had been the one to leave first, trying to salvage some shreds of pride, but she could always sense their bitterness and pain-and reveled in it.

Now that he knew there was no point in being around her anymore, Pedric had merely turned and walked away. The aristo bastard simply didn't care.

Recovering herself, she rushed out after him, intending to continue the fight and then, this time, conclude it with her walking away from him. She nearly collided with Freylis. "Oh!" she gasped, startled.

The big man grinned down at her. Marrika tried not to wrinkle her nose. Freylis obviously believed that in order to own the streets one had to smell like them.

"Overheard your conversation," he said. "Otter is an idiot, letting a pretty little fishy like you get away from him."

She gazed up at him, letting her lips smile sweetly. Behind the mask of her face her thoughts raced. Freylis was, if possible, a greater fool than Pedric. He also had his own group of followers. She knew that he was furious at his defeat tonight. If she was any judge of men, she guessed that he was in a mood for a bout of hot, primal copulation, followed by plans for revenge.

Both actions suited her just fine. "Would you mind walking me home?" she asked. "It seems I'm without escort tonight."

Freylis's ugly face split into an even uglier grin.