Lioness Rampant

5 IN THE CAPITAL OF TORTALL

WHEN QUEEN LIANNE DIED IN MARCH, TORTALL mourned. Now, after the king’s sudden death, the nation’s feeling was one of shocked disbelief. To lose both in such a short time seemed like the work of an angry god.

“The Black God is taking his revenge on us,” people muttered. “He’s not pleased that the Lord of Trebond brought the Duke back from his grave. You can’t go interfering with the gods without them extracting payment.” The rumors spread, and gossips began to claim that Jonathan’s reign would be cursed.

“As if I don’t have enough problems,” Jonathan told his acting prime minister, Sir Gareth (the Younger) of Naxen.

Gary looked up from the documents he studied, his chestnut eyes worried. His cousin looked worn out. “Talking to yourself again?” He said it like a joke.

“The rumors,” Jonathan explained.

“They’ll pass, particularly since there’s no proof. If the gods are angry, why would they pick on their Majesties? Why haven’t they struck Master Lord Thom down? If they want, I’ll volunteer for the duty. Thom irritates me. A good striking-down might improve him.”

“Does he look sick to you?” Jon asked abruptly. “Thom?”

Gary put down his papers. “I don’t get close enough to notice how our bold sorcerer looks, if I can help it. He never sheathes that tongue of his anymore. Why?”

“George mentioned it to me, the other day. Thom does seem thinner.”

“He’s probably losing sleep while he looks up some old spell or the other. Jon, I need your signature on these.”

Jonathan obeyed, writing his name over the royal seal on several documents. “I still can’t get used to signing as ruler of Tortall. I didn’t think I’d be king for … years.” He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Sympathetic, Gary said nothing. After a moment Jon went on. “I feel helpless. I should have done something to keep them alive.”

“What could anyone have done?” Gary asked sensibly. “Aunt Lianne never got well after Roger’s spell was broken. And the king—” He stopped, not wanting to touch an unhealed wound.

“He killed himself,” Jon whispered. He always forced himself to see the truth, and Gary was one of the few who knew the king had deliberately killed himself. “How could he do that?”

“He loved her.” Gary’s voice was soft.

Jonathan shook his head. “Could I love anyone so much that I’d forget that I have a duty to my people? George says you can smell their fear down in the Lower City. I can’t blame them for thinking there’s a curse—not with the famine last winter, and then … this. And what can I tell them that will give them confidence? They don’t know me. They didn’t really know my father.” He returned the documents to his cousin. “Once things have settled down, I’m going to visit every corner of Tortall. I won’t be a king who stays in his palace and waits for his people to come to him.” His face was set and stubborn. “I hope Alanna really can bring us the Dominion Jewel.”

“Do you think the messengers will find her?” Gary asked.

“One of them will. One of them has to.”

As Jonathan and Gary talked, George Cooper entered his mother’s house. A message from Corus had brought him home from Port Caynn at a gallop. Claw, frustrated by months of trying to kill George, had done the unthinkable and attacked a noncombatant, Eleni Cooper. Men and women loyal to George had turned back Claw’s forces, and now Mistress Cooper’s home resembled an army camp, complete with wary sentries.

When her son walked into the kitchen, Eleni was sorting and boxing the herbs she used as a healer. Pots holding some potions bubbled on the hearth, filling the air with the scent of herbs.

“It could have been worse,” she told George. “None of your people were killed, and I’m all right.”

George scowled. “This time, Mother. What of the next time, and the next? He attacked a woman who’s not sealed to the Rogue. Claw will respect none of our laws if he breaks this one. He don’t care who gets hurt. He don’t care if my Lord Provost descends on us with soldiers to rid the city of us and our wars. He cares nothin’ for them he bribes and forces to follow him. They can end on Gallows Hill, and Claw will make no move to save them. It isn’t right. He wants to be Rogue, but he won’t look after those sealed to him as is his duty.” He accepted the cup of herbal tea she poured for him and sipped it without noticing what he drank. “Our greatest advantage lay always in never causin’ enough trouble that my Lord Provost would be interested in cleanin’ the Lower City of us.”

“You’ll find a way to deal with him,” Eleni told him. She labeled a packet of comfrey leaves. “I’ve never known you to admit defeat, George.”

“Sometimes I start believin’ the rumors,” George whispered, looking tired. “Let’s face it, Mother—a man killed once should stay dead.”

Eleni sat across from him at the table. “Thank the Goddess his Gift didn’t leave the tomb with him.”

“We’ve only his word for that, and Thom’s.” George spooned honey into his tea. “I think sometimes all our troubles since October stem from those two. No, that’s unfair. I let Alanna go myself.”

“She could have waited for you in Port Caynn,” Eleni reminded him.

George smiled ruefully. “I try not to ask the impossible of her, Mother. She’s not a lass who waits at home for her man.”

“She could have returned here with you.”

George shook his head. “She didn’t wish to face our nobles again. I think her memories of Jonathan still hurt.”

“Perhaps you should go after her, then. You haven’t been yourself since she returned to the desert.” Taking one of his hands, she added, “It would please me to know you had stopped your courting of the hangman’s noose.”

George squeezed her hand. “I can’t, Mother, not yet. I’ve a few things to finish up here, first.” His face was bleak. “Besides, didn’t I tell you? The news from Maren and Sarain is she’s keepin’ company with the Shang Dragon. How can a commoner and a rogue rival the likes of the king of Tortall and Liam Ironarm?”

Eleni frowned. “It’s not like you to feel sorry for yourself, or to give up without a fight.”

George patted his mother’s cheek. “I haven’t. I’m just givin’ Alanna her head while I see to things here.” He grinned, and Eleni grinned back. Finishing his tea, he added, “Speakin’ of that, we need to take steps. Claw may be fool enough t’try this again.”

“Be careful, George,” she teased. “You risk getting tangled in the affairs of law-abiding people like me. Respectability might be catching.” Seeing he continued to frown, she said tartly, “What would you do, surround me with the King’s Own?”

He looked at her, and a wide grin spread over his face. “You know, Mother, you may have an idea there.”

A few hours later George took his mother to call on Myles of Olau in his town house. Bazhir guards admitted them and escorted them to the knight’s study. The servants hurried to bring Myles and his guests refreshments. George they knew for a frequent guest, but none of them had ever seen the woman who accompanied him. Gossip buzzed in the kitchens as the tribesmen who attended Myles looked on.

Alanna’s father looked from George to Eleni after hearing George’s request, tugging his shaggy beard. “I’d be delighted if Mistress Cooper wishes to stay in my house. I didn’t know things were so bad for you, though.”

“Claw’s not givin’ up easy,” George said grimly. “And he knows he can hurt me through Mother. Here, with all these Bazhir about, she’ll be safe. You have archers enough.”

“It comes of my daughter being the Woman Who Rides Like a Man,” Myles told Eleni, his eyes twinkling. “I adopted her, and they adopted me.” He took Eleni’s hand. “Alanna’s told me about you, and you are the mother of my friend George. I welcome the chance to do you a service, Mistress Cooper.”

She looked him over. “I hate to leave my home,” she admitted. “But while my son makes his life among rogues, I must be careful. Thank you, Sir Myles. I accept sanctuary in your house.”

“Then it must be ‘Myles.’” The knight kissed her hand.

“As I am ‘Eleni.’”

Myles held Eleni’s hand a moment too long, making George think. This possibility hadn’t occurred to him before. A fine thing, to be gettin’ a new Pa at my age, he thought with a grin.

Thom dropped into an armchair with a sigh. The bright colors of his silk robe overwhelmed his pale face and dull copper hair, bleaching his eyes to a light amethyst. He rubbed a hand over his chapped mouth, wincing as a crack began to bleed.

Roger of Conté walked in. “So you’re back. I was just finishing my notes on Palawynn the Windwaker.”

“Thank you,” Thom rasped, watching as Roger took a seat. In contrast, the Duke was the picture of health: gleaming brown-black hair and beard, brilliant sapphire eyes, glowing skin. He didn’t look as if he’d spent ten months in a tomb, to emerge as a magicless sorcerer.

So here’s an irony, Thom thought. I raise him from death, and seven months later I look as if I just crawled out of the grave. “I just had another cozy talk with his soon-to-be Majesty,” he announced bitterly. “This time he brought my Lord Provost. I don’t like that old man—I never did.” Mimicking, he went on, “Was I still sure you have no Gift? Would I report it if you showed signs of getting it back? Have I noticed you conspiring with anyone? Do I suspect you of involvement in the king’s death? or the queen’s? or my third cousin’s, the one who was struck by lightning!” His face turned an ugly red. “They asked me if I trust you,” he added sullenly.

Roger inspected his fingernails. “Do you?” he inquired in his melodic voice.

“Of course I don’t. I don’t trust anyone.”

“Except your sister,” Roger pointed out. “What did they say?”

“Nothing, this time,” Thom replied, puzzled. “Usually I get a lecture about my duty to spy on you and report my suspicions, but this time—nothing.”

“I see. Is there word of your twin?”

Thom glanced sharply at him, a look Roger met with a bland expression. “Jonathan’s had word from some Udayan hedgewitch,” he said reluctantly. “Sir Raoul found Alanna there. It’s possible they’ll sail to Port Caynn sometime next week.”

“You must be pleased,” Roger murmured. “Didn’t I hear somewhere she is prone to seasickness?”

“Very.” Thom grinned. “To think I’d forgotten that.”

“Does gossip say if she found whatever it was that took her to the Roof of the World?”

For the thousandth time Thom wondered how Roger really felt about the woman who had killed him. “If his Majesty knows, he’s keeping quiet about it. We’ll find out for ourselves, soon enough. Are you looking forward to her coming home?”

Picking up a crystal, Roger shrugged. “I plan to stay out of her way. Shall I start on the Dragonbreaker scrolls next?”

“Do as you like,” Thom snapped. “I’m not your jailer or your keeper.”

Roger smiled, turning on his charm. “I owe you a great debt, dear boy. If not for you, I’d be caught still between here and the Realms of the Dead. If I can repay you, I will.”

“They’ll never trust you,” Thom said, red with shame. “They watch everything you do for a sign you’ve regained your Gift.”

Roger stood. “Believe me, Thom—if my magic returns, you will be the very first to know.”

The Inn of the Dancing Dove was quiet. It was an hour before sunset, and the city’s rogues still prowled the streets. George looked around the empty common room, aware—not for the first time—that he no longer enjoyed being master here.

In part it was his war with Claw. It had begun when George visited Port Caynn, to put down a revolt and then to have a love affair with Alanna. Four months ago Claw had moved to become King of Thieves in George’s absence. He had used blackmail to force many to follow him, and then he’d tried to poison George. George had come to the city to save his throne, and Alanna had returned to her Bazhir. George had known then that he’d probably lost her.

When George was younger, things were different. A would-be king challenged the old one to a fight before witnesses. The winner took the throne-like chair at the Dancing Dove and a tenth of the profit on each major transaction and theft. He gave the choicest jobs and judged quarrels. He was king of the Tortallan underworld and received far more obedience than his people would ever give the king in the palace.

Claw would not fight. Claw swore loyalty to George while his men attacked George nightly. Many rogues changed their allegiance on a day-to-day basis, depending on who appeared to be the winner. Only George’s oldest friends kept faith with him.

The only interest George now had in the Rogue was the effort to bring Claw down. And he hoped finding out who Claw really was would help. Myles had put a man to investigating Claw’s secret past. The history the one-eyed rogue had given George on his arrival in Corus was as false as his name. In other thieves this hardly mattered, but Claw spoke and acted at times like a noble.

“Majesty!” A street boy George didn’t know rushed in. “Majesty, come quick! Claw’s took by Provost-men!” George followed the boy through the rear entrance, still deep in thought. When he emerged, a man struck him from behind, knocking him into the mud of the kitchen yard. George cleared two knives from their sheaths at his waist. This is how you pay, he thought grimly as he slashed and struck. You forget to be watchful and the Black God taps your shoulder …

He slashed again; someone screamed. The man on his back fell off. George lunged to his feet, his knives sweeping in a silver arc. Of the gang surrounding him, he took one in the throat and the next low. A fourth jumped from the kitchen roof onto his shoulders. George rammed backward into a wall to stun his assailant.

A swordsman attacked. A line of pain streaked from George’s shoulder to his thigh. Gritting his teeth, George threw one of his knives, hitting the swordsman in the chest.

The kitchen yard boiled with enemies. Where were his own people? He found another of his many concealed knives and faced a man with a hand-ax. This one bellowed and charged, but four arrows cut his voice off. He never completed his attack. Black arrows rained as rearing Bazhir warhorses cut off all chances for escape. Within a second the only sound in the kitchen yard was that of the horses.

“You’re lucky I was coming to visit,” Myles said as he rode up. Dismounting, he caught George as the thief staggered. “You need a healer!”

George shook his head, as much to clear it as to say “no.”

“Solom,” he muttered. Myles helped him into the Dancing Dove’s kitchen. Just inside the door they found Old Solom and two serving girls, dead.

George was still recuperating in Myles’s house two days later when a servant interrupted the knight at his lunch to say Dalil al Marganit awaited him in the library. Myles put down his knife and scrubbed at his face rapidly with a napkin. Al Marganit was the man he’d put to work seeking Claw’s true identity. He’d used the little Sirajit agent before and could count on him to find out almost anything.

When Myles entered the library, the agent rose and bowed. He gestured to the bowl of fruit and the Tyran wine the servants had already brought him, saying, “I am treated like a noble in this house.”

Myles sat behind his desk with a smile. “You deserve that treatment, Dalil. Sit down, please. What have you learned for me?”

The little man took a notebook from inside his tunic and leafed through blotted pages. Nearsighted, he had to bring the pages so close to his eyes that they tickled his nose. He sneezed. “Regarding the matter of the thief Claw. Hm! Yes! Arrested by my Lord Provost’s men two years ago. Charge of suspected robbery, released for lack of evidence. Our Provost is scrupulous in such matters, unlike many in his place, as your lordship knows. Arrested five months ago in the Dock Riots, escaped. He’s now sought by Provost’s men. They do not look as hard as they might; one assumes he has paid large bribes.

“I traced the subject Claw to Vedis in Galla, where he claims to originate. He is unknown in the cities Vedis, Nenet, and Jyotis in Galla, all having large communities of thieves. Going by my lord’s guess that Claw’s accent is that of the Lake Region in Tortall and that Claw was born of nobles either legitimately or illegitimately, I journeyed to the Lake Region with a good drawing of the subject Claw. Here is an accounting of my expenses.” He gave Myles a sheet of notepaper, which the knight barely glanced at.

Al Marganit closed the notebook and looked at Myles. “Claw is Ralon of Malven …”

Myles turned white. Another of Alanna’s enemies! No one had seen or heard from him in years. While he’d thought Claw might be illegitimate and trained by his noble-born parents’ teachers, he’d never considered the possibility that Claw was a true-born son of a noble family, hiding in the Court of the Rogue! He realized the agent was looking at him, worried. Forcing a smile, he said, “It’s all right. Go on.”

The little man shrugged and continued. Obviously Sir Myles wasn’t going to tell him why he looked as if he’d just stepped on a grave. “He is the third son of Viljo, Count of Malven, and his lady Gaylyah. He was disinherited after the attempted rape of the second daughter of the bailiff, Anala, a village in Eldorne hold. Eldorne is the neighbor of Malven.” A connection between Claw and Delia? Myles wondered. He scribbled a note to himself as Dalil continued. “The girl’s maid threw acid in his face, thereby leaving the purple scars of which you spoke, and causing him to lose an eye. If I may refresh my lord’s memory, Ralon of Malven left court at the age of fourteen, after months of feuding with the page Alan of Trebond. Or, if I may be so bold, in the matter of Alanna of Trebond and Olau.”

Myles gave an absent smile. “Though blessed few of us knew it, then. Ralon of Malven! How could I have forgotten?”

“He is well disguised, my lord. He came, as bad men will, to make his name among rogues. He battles the present King of Thieves for his throne, but he will not call for an open fight as the custom decrees. Instead, he fights with treachery. Unlike the legitimate Rogue, Ralon as Claw will hire to do murder or to ruin a good name. He will betray those who follow him.” The little man shook his head. “A noble gone bad, my lord. There’s no stopping him, not at all. He will say that he is owed something, and he has come to collect.”

Myles sent al Marganit home with well-earned praise and a fat purse. The agent had never failed him, and this time he’d succeeded past Myles’s greatest dreams. The knight considered every aspect of what he’d learned for an hour or so, then went to tell Eleni Cooper and her son.

Chance, and the first sunny day in more than a week, brought large numbers of people to the Corus marketplace that spring morning. Jonathan, after much persuasion, agreed to go riding—his first such outing since the king’s funeral. He was a commanding figure in mourning black, flanked by Roger and Sir Gary, both also in black. With them rode other knights and ladies, including Delia of Eldorne, Alex of Tirragen, and Princess Josiane of the Copper Isles.

The company was a beautiful sight, even in their mourning colors of black, lavender, and gray. A crowd soon gathered in the market to watch them pass. The men of the King’s Own—many of them uniformed Bazhir, these days—exchanged wary looks and kept an eye on the people who closed in on the riding party. They were disturbed by the crowd’s silence. No one called blessings on the king-to-be; many made the Sign against Evil when Roger passed them. There were no cheers. The usual audible and sometimes satiric comments on the nobles’ dress and private lives were missing.

George Cooper watched. He’d risked reopening his wounds and being spotted by Claw’s or the Provost’s men to see how people received their new king. He scanned faces in the crowd, trying to find any feelings other than suspicion or wariness.

“That Conté Duke looks like a king,” someone muttered. “Against him Prince Jonathan’s a boy.”

“I never heard bad of the prince,” someone else hissed. “I’ve heard plenty bad about his Grace! Ain’t natural for a man t’live twice—”

“Th’ prince be cursed,” came a third voice, cracked with age. “Th’ Sweatin’ Sickness when he was a lad, that took my Alish, and both his parents dead, and him, the sorcerer, come back—”

“He drove the evil from the Black City, away south,” a fourth voice argued. “He made peace with the Bazhir. The Old King, his grandda, couldn’t even do that.”

“He helped a woman make herself a knight. If that ain’t unnatural—”

“Hush! Crowds is full of spies, and you’ve a loose tongue in your head!”

The people stirred with interest as the Lord Provost rode up to change places with Gary. George’s long-time enemy was blue-eyed and lean, his face leathery from years in the sun and framed by heavy silver hair and a short silver beard. The Tortall rogues called him “The Old Demon” and were intensely proud of him; foreign rogues made the Sign when he was mentioned.

The people in the crowd, the honest ones, liked the fierce old man. Someone applauded, then someone else. A woman raised a cheer and was joined by others.

Jonathan smiled. Someone cried, “God bless you, Majesty!” This received a cheer from many, and George smiled at the fickle nature of the crowd.

A woman in front of the riding party held her child up to see, and shrieked when the toddler wriggled out of her hands and ran into the cluster of riders. Jon swung far to the right and down, seizing the child with one hand and scooping it up out of danger from the horses’ hooves. Darkness reared and plunged at his rider’s activity, but the king-to-be held him as the child wailed. The Provost gripped Darkness’s bridle, forcing the stallion down.

Jonathan dismounted, carrying the squalling toddler. The mother ran forward under the glares of the King’s Own, laughing and crying, to take her little one back. She hugged Jon in one arm and the child in the other, thanking the young man. Her words were inaudible against the cheer that went up as word circulated about what Jon had done. Uneasy for some reason, George left his niche and began to make his way through the crowd, heading for the group of nobles.

His intuition was good. A man near the party drew a knife from his belt and ran for Jonathan while George was too far away to help. The attacker was screaming something. Later the Provost told Myles it sounded like “Death to the unlucky king!”

Jonathan was tangled in woman and child. His companions were hampered by the crowd and their own horses. It was Darkness who came to his master’s defense, rearing to strike the assassin with his hooves. The man went down as other killers swathed in cloaks appeared out of the crowd.

George tackled one and knifed another. The Provost had dismounted and was fighting with knives, grinning fiercely as he caught one man on crossed blades and kneed him. Horses reared, ladies screamed, and the Great Market Riot had begun.

Of it all, George remembered only the moment when he and the Provost—for the first time in their long war—came face-to-face in the melee. Given a choice, he would have relinquished the honor. Now he froze, letting the assassin he’d targeted get away. The Provost looked at him, turned, and disappeared back into the crowd. Had he winked?

Accompanied by his most trusted people—the brothers Orem and Shem, the knife masters Ercole and Marek—George reached Jonathan’s party to find the king-to-be nursing a wounded arm. The King’s Own closed in, forming a tight circle around Gary, Jonathan, and Josiane. Roger was nowhere to be seen, the thief noted. The Provost was mounting his horse, secure in the middle of a second ring of guards. George’s shoulder wound had opened and was bleeding again.

He ignored it. “I know a way out!” he called to Jon. “If you’ll trust me!”

The leader of the King’s Own glanced at the prince, who nodded. George guided Jon’s party into a side street and out of the riot, keeping an eye out for assassins. He and his people left the nobles on the Temple Way when others of the riding party arrived and a second company of the King’s Own came riding down from the palace.

“It was Claw,” George told Eleni and Myles at House Olau soon after. He winced as his mother applied yet another poultice to his reopened shoulder. “The assassins were his, every one, and they wanted Jon.”

“What does Claw gain if anything happens to Jonathan?” Myles wanted to know. “He’s not connected to anyone at the palace who would benefit—not as far as I’ve heard. Although Delia—”

“I find it interestin’ that his Grace of Conté got out so easy,” George drawled, propping his feet on a hassock. “But you’re right, it still makes no sense. ’Twas too easy for the innocent to get hurt along with the guilty this mornin’. If he planned it, he ran as great a risk of bein’ trampled as the rest of us.”

Eleni shook her head sadly. “I’m worried about those who got hurt in this madness. I’d best go see what I may do.” She stood, shaking out her skirts. “But isn’t that always the way when folk plot to steal power? The innocent get hurt.”

The final toll of the Great Market Riot was fifteen dead, thirty-six hurt (including the king-to-be), and untold damages to shops and stalls. The atmosphere of suspicion and fear thickened. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, Jonathan began to ride once a week through the capital and the surrounding countryside.

Jonathan watched the stars appear from a castle balcony, relaxing as he prepared himself for a night among his court. Again Josiane would try to win him back, and again he’d keep her at a distance. Not for the first time he regretted his involvement with the princess from the Copper Isles. He’d tired of her quickly, and she’d been reluctant to understand that. Now that he knew her better, he also realized that, in spite of his mother’s plans for Josiane, the princess would have made a very bad queen.

Still, he had to smile. He’d just come from his time as the Voice of the Tribes. In touch with Coram for the first time since January, he’d learned that the wayfarers had reached Maren’s western border and would anchor in Tyra in the morning. Soon Alanna would be home, and he could put his Lioness—and the Dominion Jewel—to work.

“That’s all of it, Majesty.” The humpbacked man known as Aled the Armorer fidgeted. “I wish Claw’d never come t’me. I don’t like this, nor the consequences if word leaks out of what’s afoot.”

George sprawled in his chair, rubbing his chin as he surveyed his informant. His hazel eyes glittered through his lashes, making the armorer twist his cap into a knot. “Mayhap Claw fed you a tale, Aled. It won’t be the first time a man tested loyalty by givin’ out a lie.”

“He paid gold for his tale, then,” Aled whined. “Asides, he don’t know I’ve been sellin’ t’Isham Killmaster and Kasi the Spy these five years. Only Killmaster favors armor in the K’miri style but lacquered black like they never do. And the Spy—”

“Enough. If you say that’s who’s involved, I must trust you. I pay you enough.”

“T’ain’t just the gold, Majesty,” Aled protested. “My mam raised no fools. They’s one fate for them as kills a king.” His gesture illustrated the fate clearly. “I’m afeared of Claw, bein’s he’s crazier’n a priest, but Provost’s justice is fast. Our folk be crooked, but loyal all the same. If they knew Claw was up t’this, them that helps ’ im wouldn’t live t’face the Provost. I’m between Goddess and Black God with no place to run.”

George tossed a silver noble to the armorer, who caught it and bit it (to make sure it wasn’t fake). “Not a word to Claw, Aled.”

The other man winced. He knew what Claw would do to him if the news he’d talked to George leaked out. “No, indeed, Majesty!” He left the Dancing Dove, muttering.

George stared into the distance. When Alanna had introduced him to Jonathan, he knew the day might come when his duty to the Rogue would conflict with his friendship with the prince. That time had come. What was he to do? A rescue in a riot, with everyone too excited to think clearly, was one thing. Informing on a plot was another. The marketplace assassins were dead and Claw in hiding, so no good would have come of his saying who’d started the whole thing. But Aled’s tale had concerned corrupt servants, and a new plot that reached from the palace to Claw.

George grew up in the Lower City, learning the underworld’s laws: Obey the Rogue; pay his tax; and—most importantly—never betray a fellow Rogue to the King’s Justice. The penalty was slow death. A year ago George would have been the last to consider such a betrayal. But that was before Claw changed things.

Jonathan was his friend. They’d spent many good evenings together; they’d loved the same woman; they both knew what kingship meant. In some ways Jon was closer to him than Alanna—she couldn’t conceive the burdens of a king, and Jon had never known anything else.

Either I’ve turned stupid, or life’s turned hard, he thought with a sigh.

The first thing Thom of Trebond noticed, returning late to his palace rooms, was that the door to his study was not closed. “I’ll turn the maids into fish if they left the door ajar!” he roared, slamming the door open.

The shadowy figure sitting by his hearth was thrown into relief by the glow from Thom. “I can see we’ll not be needin’ candles,” George drawled. “Close the door. There’s a good lad.”

Thom stared at his guest, then obeyed. As he slumped into a chair, he demanded, “What’re you doing here at this hour? Up to no good, I bet.”

“Why must you ask? Don’t you see all that happens in your tea cup in the mornin’?” George’s voice was bitter. He’d just come from telling Jon about the newest threat to his life—from betraying the Rogue, part of his mind insisted.

Thom tried to read George’s face, but the glow he cast wasn’t that strong. Not yet, he thought bitterly. “You haven’t done something … Rogue-ish, have you?”

George glared at him. “Don’t play me for an innocent, Thommy my lad. If I wanted to tell you, I would. It chances that I don’t.”

Thom shrugged. “As you wish.” He threw fire at the candles beside George; it was too much, consuming half of the fat wax sticks. He looked at the thief to see what he made of it, but only a slight crinkling around George’s eyes gave away that he’d noticed anything unusual.

“Say something.” Thom’s voice was tight. “Everyone else has! I heard Baird tell Jonathan perhaps the Mithrans let me go too soon.” When George didn’t reply, he yelled, “Say it, damn you!”

“You keep things chilly in here,” was the mild reply. “I know this old pile’s hard to warm, and it’s near midsummer and all—”

Thom laughed and could not stop. He buried his face in his hands, his thin body shaking. George rose, a worried look in his eyes, and put a hand on Thom’s shoulder.

“Don’t!” the sorcerer cried, but it was too late. George pulled back his hand after only a brief touch: Thom was far hotter than any mortal could be and still live.

“Black God’s belly, Thom! How long’ve you been like this?”

The younger man shook his head. “I have no idea.” He saw George shiver. “Go ahead—start a fire. It doesn’t make a difference. I’d do it myself, but—” He looked at the candles.

George knelt to use flint and steel to start a blaze. Watching it burn, he said cautiously, “I was struck by old Si-cham, when we visited you at the City.”

“No. No, I tell you! Have him come, and gloat—”

“He didn’t look like the gloatin’ kind to me, lad. He would’ve liked you, had you given him a chance. He was a bright young sprout himself, once.”

Bloodshot amethyst eyes started at him. “D’you think this is some trouble I stumbled into, that my teaching-master can get me out of? A safety measure I didn’t take? Some bit of carelessness that can be mended by someone older and more experienced?”

“No. That kind of mistake’s known right off, and it’s often fatal. But Si-cham may’ve seen what’s wrong with you before—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Thom’s voice was flat as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “They were jealous of me in the City, all of those masters. There’s nothing they’d like better than to see me caught in a mistake.”

George considered his next remark carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Finally he decided to speak anyway. “What of Duke Baird, him that’s chief of the palace healers? Mayhap he—”

Thom giggled in earnest, his laugh hoarse with disuse. “Baird! What do I tell him? That—that—” He caught his breath. “I have a cold in my Gift?”

George smiled. “Does your friend know?”

They both knew who he meant. “If he does, he keeps it to himself. I can’t—won’t—ask him.” Softly Thom added, “I’m afraid to.” He looked at George, his face white and pinched. “I believe he knows exactly what it is.” He jumped out of his chair. “Are you happy? Will you tell Myles he was right all along? Why not tell Jon, while you’re at it? You have no proof he’s whole again, no proof!” Tears ran down his cheeks.

“Lad, calm down,” George said, keeping his alarm hidden. “You’re wearin’ me out.”

Thom laughed. “I don’t have any proof, either,” he went on tiredly. “But what else can I think, except that somehow he can do this? It’s that or … I have to believe the gods turned away from me. Because I thought and said it would be easy to make myself a god.”

“If there’s anyone you can ask—”

“No one. I made sure of that, didn’t I? This will pass. I’ll find a cure—something. I haven’t looked in the right places.”

George knew a dismissal when he heard it. He gathered up his cloak.

“Thank you.” It was a whisper.

“I did nothin’ to be thanked for this night,” George said harshly. “Not for you, not for anyone.”

“You listened, even though I’ve tried my best to discourage you. And you didn’t say you’ve warned me. If he is doing something.”

George nodded and left. Thom watched the fire for a moment, then rasped three words. A wave of sea water broke over the hearth, toppled the candles, and doused the fire before vanishing. He sat for the rest of the night, smelling scorched wood, ocean, and wet carpeting.

The thief, who was gone from Thom’s thoughts when the door closed, went to his most recent hideout. At dawn George’s messenger rode north to the City of the Gods with George’s urgent letter to Si-cham, First Master of the Order of Mithros.

Several nights after George had passed on his information, Jonathan and the Lord Provost laid their plans to catch the conspirators. They met in a room near the servant’s quarters. By Jonathan’s command, Roger was also present. “You are in charge, my lord,” Jon told the Provost when his cousin arrived. “Give us your instructions.”

The Provost opened a hidden panel that led to the maze of secret passages and servants’ corridors in this section of the palace. “We’ll be able to see and hear everything. My boys were able to fix the room, thanks to all this advance warnin’. But neither of you make a sound, or you’ll blow the game.” The old man was common-born and it showed in his speech. “If they say what it’s claimed they will, I’ll signal the arrest.”

“I cannot see why my presence is necessary,” Roger commented. He looked bored.

Jonathan glanced at him and snapped, “Call it my whim, Roger.”

“Since when does the king-to-be take part in spying, even on a whim?” Roger’s melodic voice was filled with sarcasm.

“We’re spyin’ on would-be regicides,” the Provost said dryly. “King-killers.”

“A plot against my cousin? What folly!” Roger’s voice sharpened. “You suspect me, Jonathan?”

“You haven’t been implicated,” was the cool reply.

“I thought I was to be forgiven my … earlier errors,” said Roger bitterly.

“Do your friends feel the same way?” Jon demanded. “Perhaps you should ask them. If you don’t know the answer already!”

“Enough!” the Provost ordered. “Let’s get movin’.”

They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost’s men. Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King’s Own.

Jon sneaked a look at Roger to see his cousin’s reaction. Roger’s mouth was set in a grim line as he watched the scene before him. He didn’t appear upset or worried, reactions Jon had half expected.

“When’re they coming?” the Guard snapped. “If my sergeant inspects—”

“You said he never inspects.” The girl’s voice was clear and cold.

“But if he does, tonight—”

“Keep your breeches on,” the groom ordered scornfully. “If you followed your orders, everything will proceed according to plan.”

There were two raps on the door—everyone inside stiffened. There were two more raps, a pause, then two more. The maid undid the bolt and let four men in. One was Jonathan’s favorite palace scribe, who had apparently guided those with him to the meeting place. Putting aside his bitterness over the scribe’s betrayal, Jon turned his attention to the outsiders.

He recognized Claw—Ralon of Malven—from his description. The other two he assumed to be the assassins, the Spy and the Killmaster—they had the look of paid killers.

The maid bolted the door as Claw looked around. “You were careful on your way here?” he demanded of the servants. Jon smiled grimly. Unlike Myles, he knew Ralon’s voice instantly. “No one followed?” Claw went on, checking the corners of the room. He apparently was unable to keep still. “Woe to any of you if you betray me.”

“None of us dare betray anyone,” the groom answered. “We’re all in too deep.” He tossed a packet of documents on the table in the center of the room. “Here’s my part of it. Diagrams of the king’s rooms and every way to get in or out.”

The Guard put a paper on the table. “Here’s the nights I’m on duty at the kitchen gate. But I don’t want to hear details—”

Claw put his hand on his dagger hilt, his single eye suddenly wild. “You hear whatever I want you to hear! And when I want your opinions, I’ll tell you to give them!” The Guard shrank back, frightened. At the edge of his vision Jon saw the Provost give a hand signal to one of his men. The man nodded and trotted away silently.

“Memorize their faces,” Claw was telling the assassins when Jon focused on the room again. “So you know who to kill if we’re betrayed.” The assassins looked slowly at each of the servants until the others were clearly frightened. Suddenly Claw leaned over the table and drew his finger over the surface. He stared at his fingertip for a moment before turning on the maid.

“You said no one ever uses this room. But there’s no dust on the table.”

The maid steeled herself. “I came in and dusted around. I didn’t want to breathe ten years’ worth of dirt—”

Claw backhanded her viciously. “Stupid female!” Walking straight back until he was inches away from the Lord Provost’s spy hole, he drew a finger down the intricate molding of the screen that masked the wall and the openings in it. He brought it away clean.

“And you dusted back here, too?” he screamed at the maid. He ran for the door and yanked it open as he drew his sword.

The Provost’s men outside were caught unaware and unready. Claw cut down one of them as the assassins rushed to follow. The Provost had already left at a run. Jonathan and Roger drew back from the wall.

“Tell me you knew nothing of this—cousin,” Jon snapped. “Tell me this isn’t yet another of your plots to gain the throne. I don’t care if you didn’t bespell my mother one more time. It was because of your past work that she lost the strength to live. What is there to stop me from believing this is just another of your schemes? That you want my throne as badly as you ever did?”

Roger gripped Jon’s arm. “I had no knowledge of a plot. I’ll swear it by any of your gods,” the Duke hissed. “If those who planned this did so for reasons they claim involve me, I shall hunt them down and … disabuse them of their mistake. In the name of the Goddess and the Black God, I swear I do not want your throne. Does that satisfy you?”

He’d just invoked two deities famous for their fierce punishments for oath-breakers. Reluctantly, Jon nodded. “You say ‘your gods.’ Don’t you believe in them?”

Roger’s smile was bitter. “I believe in them. Only a fool does not. Since they have made it very clear they do not like me, I refuse to worship them.” He stared into the distance, his eyes glittering. “But they can be defeated, Jonathan. The right man can shake their thrones.”

A few minutes later a slightly mussed Provost found Jonathan alone in the passage. “We have all of them but Claw,” he said wearily. “And two of my lads are dead. The others might wish they were dead, once I get through with them for lettin’ Claw escape.”

“He’s slippery,” Jonathan said absently. “I have every faith that you’ll get another chance at him, though.”

Eleni Cooper came awake, feeling uneasy. In her own home that feeling meant someone needed her as a healer. Deciding it couldn’t be different here, she pulled on a robe and ran downstairs. A bleary-eyed maidservant held up a lamp as Bazhir guards helped three people in at the door. One Bazhir gave orders to others outside: Eleni saw the glitter of drawn swords as the door was closed and barred.

“Mistress Cooper!” Relief was in the maid’s sleepy face. “These people say they’re friends of Master George.”

Eleni recognized them. “Marek Swiftknife, can’t you keep yourself in one piece?” She ran forward, taking charge of a pale and bloody Rispah while still lecturing Marek. “It’s only six months since I patched you up last!”

Marek tried to smile. “Sorry, Mother Cooper.”

“We need the empty storeroom,” Eleni told the maid. “And wake Myles—”

“Unnecessary.” The knight hurried downstairs, his hair and beard in disarray. “Mistress Cooper needs her bag, Tereze. Wake the housekeeper. We need clean linen and boiling water!” He opened the storeroom.

“You’re learning,” Eleni said with a smile. She helped Rispah onto a clean table in the unused room. “Who’s the worst hurt?”

“Ercole, then Marek,” Rispah whispered. “I’m all right, Aunt.”

Marek held a wadded burnoose to a wound in his side; another in his thigh bled freely. “They got Ercole five times,” he told Myles as Eleni laid the oldest of the three on his table.

The healer looked at one of the Bazhir. “Someone must go for Mistress Kuri Tailor, House Kuri on Weaver’s Lane. She’s a friend, a healer, and I need help.” The man bowed and was gone as she stripped Ercole down.

Myles’s servants brought Eleni everything she needed. As she cleaned Ercole’s wounds, Marek talked to Myles. “It was Claw—he found us, him and his people. He said he had a job, a secret job, and he was betrayed.”

“Betrayed?” Myles frowned.

“Just as we was betrayed.” Marek looked away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’re dead, Myles—Scholar, Red Nell, Orem, Shem, Lightfingers, the Peddler, and Zia the Hedgewitch; we was the only ones t’escape.”

Kuri arrived, her red-bronze hair flowing down the back of her cloak. Throwing that garment onto a chair, she came to Marek with her healer’s bag. She tied back her hair and rinsed her hands, appraising Marek’s wounds with level brown eyes. Eleni finished cleaning Ercole’s wounds and began to stitch them, her hand steady. Fortunately for healer and patient, Ercole was unconscious.

“How did they find you?” Myles’s voice broke. Scholar had been a friend.

“Anci,” Marek whispered, gritting his teeth as Kuri probed the wound in his side. “She brought them in.”

“Your lady?” Myles asked, horrified.

Marek nodded. “Claw told her one of us sold ’im to the Provost. She gave us over because we broke Rogue’s Law.”

Kuri stitched Marek’s wounds quickly and went to Rispah. The redhead who’d promised her heart to Coram bore a long gash on her left arm from shoulder to wrist. Kuri went to work as Rispah fought to keep still.

“I hope someone did turn that crazy bastard over,” she snapped, her voice tight with pain. “Since he tried for George last Midwinter, more than a hundred of us’ve died. And it hasn’t mattered if the dead was for him or against him or innocent altogether. I haven’t forgotten the Market Day fight. Who could? With Claw loose, we don’t need any Lord Provost to weed us out!”

“What if Claw’s not wrong entirely?” George had come at last, hooded and cloaked like the Bazhir to escape detection. “What if I made sure he and his people were taken up before they killed Jonathan? What then?”

The room was silent as everyone but Eleni and Ercole stared at him. Then Myles whispered, “Regicide.” Kuri made the Sign.

“Remember the tale of Oswan that murdered King Adar the Weak?” Rispah asked. “The law said he wasn’t to be let die till he was tortured three days, dawn to dark. The gods turned their faces from him and he lived six days.”

“Royal dynasties get their right from the gods. Only the gods can take it back—not men,” Kuri added softly.

“I don’t know if you did right, George.” Marek lay back, his face white. “I only wish you’d’a shivved Claw yourself afore lettin’ him escape my lord.”

The room was a parlor decorated in pale green and cream, perfect for the emerald-eyed brunette on the sofa, less perfect for the striking blonde beside her. A swarthy nobleman lounged in an armchair. It was a room meant for chatter and flirtation. The fourth man, with his battered clothes and ravaged face, was wrong here. He stood before the cold hearth, hands jammed into pockets.

“We erred in letting you join us, Ralon,” Delia of Eldorne said coldy. “Last fall you said you would be Rogue in a matter of weeks. You are still not master among the thieves. You tell us, leave the killing of a certain prince to you. Now the Provost has your people who were to handle the matter, and Jonathan is alerted to his danger.”

“I was betrayed!” Ralon of Malven was rigid with fury. “No one knew Cooper would—”

“I’m not finished!” Delia rapped out. “Explain this!” She thrust a parchment at him.

The drawing was clearly one of Ralon. Beneath it was written:

WANTED BY MY LORD PROVOST

FOR TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN

ONE CLAW, BORN RALON OF MALVEN

REWARD: ONE THOUSAND GOLD NOBLES

It described him in detail. “How did they learn my name?” he whispered in horror.

“That is immaterial,” Princess Josiane said coldly.

“You’re useless to us,” Alex of Tirragen pointed out. “More than useless—you are a danger.”

“No!” Claw yelled. “You need me—”

The door slammed open. Alex stood, sword unsheathed; Claw’s hands were filled with two sharp knives. Roger of Conté swept in, followed by a frightened guard. “My lady, I couldn’t stop him, not him—” the guard stammered.

“Return to your post,” ordered Delia, and he obeyed. Delia, who’d once been Roger’s mistress, rose to curtsey to the Duke. “Roger, this is a pleasant surprise—”

“I wanted no independent action on your parts.” They stared at him, seeing he was in a rage, and were suddenly afraid. “Do you think you assisted me? Now the king-to-be watches me; my Lord Provost suspects me. And I find I owe this happiness to you four.”

Delia sank prettily to her knees, skirts billowing. Reaching up, she touched his hand. “Forgive our enthusiasm, dear lord,” she murmured. “We meant to bring you to your rightful throne—”

“Enough.” He dragged her to her feet. “You cherished dreams once of becoming my consort. Unless you wish to be the consort of Carthaki snake-breeders, you will await my orders.” He threw her into Alex’s hold and turned to Josiane.

“Josiane of the Copper Isles, I have known you only since my return from the dead, but I understand you well. Jonathan courted you to spite Alanna of Trebond. Still, you might have kept him, with some restraint on your part. Now you want to punish him, and so you meddle with things that do not concern you. I am not your pawn. Stay out of my affairs. If you wish to be a part of this, you will await my commands—either here, or on the river bottom. Do not cross me again!”

He looked at the thief. “Ralon of Malven. The present Rogue is worth twenty of you. Your choice of tools is bad, Delia. He’ll betray you when he’s done with the thieves.”

Turning to Alex, the fury in Roger’s sapphire eyes faded to puzzlement. “I am surprised at you, my former squire.”

“I told them to do nothing,” Alex shrugged. “I said you’d have different plans. They thought matters could be … hastened. Frankly, I didn’t think it was important enough to bother you for.”

Roger smiled grimly. “You might have been right. The trouble with ambitious plots is that those who are not involved get wind of them—as they did this time. That person, or those persons, took what they heard to Jonathan, and he took their information to my Lord Provost. But you—I know you are not a plotter, and I know you are not ambitious. What do you want from this?”

Alex met his eyes for a long moment; then, smiling slightly, he bowed. He knew Roger would guess what he desired of any plan to take Jonathan from the throne.

Roger tugged his beard. “We shall see. Perhaps … You haven’t changed. As for you others,” he said, looking at them, “no more plots. No more assassins. Steal nothing for me, bribe no servants for me. My plans are my own, and you will await my instructions. I warn you this once.”

He raised a hand. Slowly blood-colored fire—the fire of magic—collected in his palm. With a savage gesture he hurled it at a small table, which exploded into chips of burning wood and molten pieces of brass and porcelain.

In the silence that followed, Roger whispered, “Don’t think to disobey me.” Turning, he walked out.

Delia was ashen. “But his Gift was bright orange …”

Alex picked up a cooling bit of glass in his handkerchief. He looked it over and began to smile.