King's man and thief

1285

Night is the thief’s friend. It enfolds him in its blanket of anonymity, hides the glitter of the lethal blade, the gleam of stolen gold. Darkness is his sanctuary, as certain a refuge for him as a temple is to the followers of its faith. Folk who conduct their business in the daylight hours sleep in the illusion of peace, as ignorant of the burglars who steal their coins as of the blades that steal their lives.

Allika sauntered carelessly down Ocean's View, the main street of Braedon, with only the moon to light her path. Cool silver light gleamed on the dark cobblestones, slick with the early morning dampness common to all seashore towns. Allika was a child of the friendly night and had no fear of what might be lurking in the shadows in the predawn hours. It was the day, with its dozens of sharp-eyed vendors and, perhaps, city guards, that harbored danger. Her doll, Miss Lally, made no protest as she bumped her rag-filled head against the cobblestones. Allika tended to drag Miss Lally by one limb, usually a leg.

Allika hummed to herself as she turned left, then right, then left again, entering the labyrinth of back alleys that were the seedier areas of Braedon. Her stomach rumbled, providing a bass counterpoint to the girl's wordless voice. She patted it absently. There would be food waiting at the Whale's Tail, more food than she'd seen in a week. The group had made a wonderful haul two nights ago, and Allika wanted to arrive before all the good things were gone.

The Whale's Tail, a third-rate tavern on a narrow, claustrophobic street that didn't even have a name, was the only building with its lights on. Allika stood on her toes to reach the knob, turned it with some effort, and entered.

The cramped, shabby tavern was not exactly a place for a seven-year-old girl, but to Allika, it was the closest thing to a home she had ever found. She felt utterly welcome here.

'"Lo," she said cheerfully, grinning at the curious collection of nobles and slum rats that considered her part of their family. "What can I have?"

"Anything you want, Little Squirrel," invited a laughing barmaid, stepping carefully around Allika as the girl, not really waiting for an answer, headed straight for the nearest table. The wine-stained wooden table was piled high with bread, cheese, meats, and most enticing of all, sweet-cakes.

Even among themselves, the thieves of the city of Braedon called one another by special names. Allika was Little Squirrel. The barmaid/thief who greeted her was Dove, and the bearded, heavy-set man who lifted Allika high enough so that she could reach the beckoning sweetcakes was Bear.

Bear now watched with amusement as Allika grew frustrated that her small hands could hold only a limited amount of food. Attempting to grab one more item, she dropped two.

"That'll do you for now!" Bear laughed. "Come back when you want more."

Allika nodded. "Is Fox coming tonight?"

"He's been invited. But he's probably too busy with his rich friends for the likes of us."

"Oh." Some of the enthusiasm went out of the girl's face. She ambled behind the bar to eat her treats safely away from adult conversation and feet.

Bear watched her go with a gaze growing speculative. Little Squirrel was a good little pickpocket. She had a pretty face, a sweet face that deceived her victims. In a few more years, she'd have a figure to go with that face. Men would pay a lot for her. He wondered why he hadn't considered prostitution before. After all, his group didn't need to limit themselves to theft. Hadn't they just proved that?

Bear had held his post for a record twelve years, and the recent robberies and murders of no fewer than three Braedon councilmen in one swift, sure highway attack would do nothing but strengthen his position as chief wolf of a savage pack.

The thought of the money Allika would earn him in a few years brought a smile to his thick lips.

"Another round," the Bear told the tavern keeper, a balding older man called Badger. "I see a few hardworking men whose glasses aren't full." He laughed and drained his own mug, which was promptly refilled by the equally genial Badger. As the "barmaids" set about the task of refilling the empty glasses, a not terribly sober, bone-thin man stumbled to his feet.

"A toast t' Bear! Today the city councilmen-tomorrow, the city isself!"

As a cheer went up, the door to the Whale's Tale splintered with a thunderous crack. The thieves, utterly shocked, hesitated just an instant too long. Then there was little time to act as armed men dressed in black clothing, their faces smeared with soot, suddenly swarmed into the tavern.

Bear overturned his table and dove behind it. A knife whistled through the air and landed with a thunk in the wood, inches from his head. Seizing two of the many daggers he always carried with him, Bear took aim and hurled them at the silent, black-clad attackers. One fell, the blade in his throat. His comrade turned coolly around and lunged for Bear.

Bear had expected more thrown daggers, not a suicidal charge, and he had only just reached for another knife when the killer was upon him. Though he outweighed the intruder by about fifty pounds, Bear fell beneath him. He felt cool metal touch his throat, then a brief, searing flash of white-hot agony. Then he felt nothing at all.

By the time the unknown killer had dispatched the leader of the thieves, seventeen of Bear's followers lay dead in pools of their own blood. A few had escaped, but not many. The men in black glanced around, their breathing heavy, searching for any who might have escaped their notice. In a corner, Dove groaned as she clutched her abdomen. Blood pumped through her Fingers. The man who had murdered Bear knelt beside her and, with a quick, strong movement, snapped her neck. The gesture was professionally executed, and might have been considered a mercy.

The men listened, tense. Silence.

No, not quite. From behind the bar came a soft, faint whimpering sound. The men snapped to attention, and two of them swiftly went to the source of the noise.

Allika stared up at them, her eyes enormous with terror and her face moon-pale. She clutched Miss Lally to her chest and mewled helplessly.

One of the Black Men raised his knife. Allika remained frozen, enthralled with horror, unable to move, to flee, or to defend herself.

"No," came a voice. "She's just a child."

"Children grow up to be thieves."

"We don't know that she is a thief." A second man, taller than the others, stepped into Allika's view. "She could be just the brat of one of the women."

"We have our orders," the First man protested.

"And I'm giving you yours. Let her alone." The tall man knelt. Allika stared at him, unable to stop trembling. The man's blue eyes seemed to bore straight into her brain.

"Listen to me, little girl. I want you to tell your friends something. Tell them that the city will not tolerate what they did on Travsdae. Any more incidents, and we'll come for the ones we didn't get tonight. Understand?"

Allika nodded. The man rose and left without another word, motioning to his fellows. She heard their retreating footsteps, then silence.

For a long time, Allika cowered behind the bar. No guards came to investigate the shrill screams that had filled the Whale's Tail. No concerned citizen, roused from his slumber, came to rescue her. Finally, she realized that she would somehow have to walk, alone, through the carnage that littered the tavern floor. She picked up the doll and sat her on her knee.

"No one's going to come get me," she whispered to Miss Lally.

Then it was Miss Lally's turn to "talk" and the words came easier, crept past the lump in her throat, when Allika was speaking for her cloth playmate.

"Come on, Allika," she said in a high, squeaky voice, moving Miss Lally's head as if the doll were speaking. "We have to go see Fox. Fox will know exactly what to do!"

"But, Miss Lally, I'm scared to go out there," she whispered in her own small voice.

"I'll be with you, Allika. They can't hurt me, and I'll be brave enough for the both of us!" Her voice cracked a little, and she laughed at herself. Rising unsteadily, the girl tried to brace herself for the scene, but her young mind was incapable of visualizing so brutal and bloody a horror. The bodies of people she had considered family were sprawled across the floor. Blood was everywhere. Allika choked back a sob.

They look just like dolls, she told herself fiercely. That's all. Just like broken dolls.

She took one step, then another. Her poorly shod feet squelched in blood, and she swallowed hard. Allika did not look down, but kept her eyes on what was left of the tavern door. Step carefully, over the limp arms, between the sprawled legs, next to the bloody heads… broken dolls. Just broken dolls.

The thought got her through the seemingly endless walk to the smashed door. Once out in the cool, safe emptiness of the streets, Allika gasped the brine-scented air as if it were the sweetest fragrance in the world. Then, no longer dragging Miss Lally but clutching her tightly, she broke into a run.

She would deliver the Black Man's message to Fox, and Fox would know exactly what to do.

Fox, known to everyone but the thieves of Braedon as Lord Deveren Larath, patron of the arts, connoisseur of the finer things in life, and incidentally possessor of a slight bit of hand magic, did not know exactly what to do. But he had a good idea.

Thirty-four years old, he had no crow's feet and only a touch of gray in his light brown hair. His hands were the hands of a musician, a surgeon, or a thief-slim, delicate, and clever. The fact that he had the gift of hand magic, magic that allowed him to manipulate objects to a certain degree, accentuated his dexterousness. Tonight, Venedae, only one night after the massacre, he wore an unembellished, royal blue tunic and comfortable black breeches-clothes that would allow for swift, unencumbered movement should the need arise.

Allika huddled in his lap, her small face nestled against his broad chest as if she could absorb his strength. Absently Deveren stroked her short black hair, his eyes flickering over the assembled company as they waited for the emergency meeting to begin.

Rabbit, a local apothecary and herbalist, had volunteered his shop for the meeting. Once, such a gesture had been commonplace, even expected. Now, in light of the murders, the offer was an act of quiet courage. The back room was where the herbs used in his medicines dried, and those who entered had to brush aside fragile, fragrant bunches of basil, marjoram, fennel, and other plants that hung from the ceiling. The warm, friendly scent of cinnamon vied with the strong odor of garlic and the tang of some kind of citrus. Rabbit had done what he could to clear the floor so people would have places to sit, but the quarters were still cramped. A few encased candles provided flickering illumination.

Deveren noticed that, to a man, the thieves all wore the same strained, wary expression that he himself bore. Everyone here knew that it was simple luck that he or she hadn't been in the Whale's Tail Desdae night, quaffing a toast to the soon-to-be-deceased Bear. As they entered, the men and women, some clad in finery, some in functional, working clothing, and some in rags, spoke soft, somber greetings.

Deveren knew them all: Clia, "Sparrow," the fortuneteller whose sultry charms diverted attention from her quick fingers; the noble-born Pedric, known as Otter, who delighted in audacious plans and narrow escapes, and his current woman Marrika, "Raven;" Freylis, "Wolf," whose bullying manner and greed would have embarrassed any pack of real wolves; Hawk, Mouse, Cat, Hound… tonight, all their voices would be heard as they selected a new leader.

After all the surviving thieves were assembled, a pitiful twenty or so, the low conversation ceased. With their leader dead, no one was sure who would conduct the meeting. The thieves raised eyes that mirrored their inner apprehension and turmoil. Only black-haired Marrika, seated cross-legged on the floor with her ubiquitous chunk of wood and her carving knife, seemed at ease. Save for the scritch-scritch sound of her whittling, the room was filled with an awkward silence. At last, Deveren gently pushed Allika off his lap and rose.

"If I remember correctly," he began, "anyone may volunteer to be leader, and then we pare it down from there." He raised his own hand. "I'm willing. Anyone else care to put his neck in the noose?"

Freylis's big hand shot up at once, as Deveren could have predicted. Freylis had been close to Bear and was certainly that man's equal in strength and viciousness, though he lacked the late leader's cunning. Of course, Freylis would covet the position. And he was popular enough that he just might get it. Deveren sincerely hoped not.

A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw Marrika elbowing Pedric. The young man, his fine velvet doublet and hose clashing with his woman's manlike working clothes, rolled his eyes and stuck his own thin, aristocrat's hand in the air. Marrika had paused in her whittling and her dark eyes snapped fire. Deveren knew that, had tradition not forbidden women to become leader, she would have raised her own hand.

He waited a few more moments, but no one else seemed to be interested in either the great honor or the great danger that came with the position.

"We three, then," he said, leaning up against the wooden wall of the room. He gestured to Rabbit. "We'll need three colors of pebbles." Rabbit, who had spent the better part of the afternoon sorting a variety of colors of beads and pebbles, nodded and slipped out into the front room. Deveren returned his attention to the gathering. "Who would like to speak first?"

Freylis rose. His bulk loomed large in the tight, packed room, and the flickering flame of the candlelight made his bearded, scarred face look even more sinister than usual.

"Bear was my friend," he said quietly. Deveren raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected a mournful Freylis.

"I been in this group for a long time, and there wasn't never a better leader than Bear. He gave us back our pride. He had plans for us, plans so that we wouldn't have to skulk around like cowards, jumping at our own damn shadows. We went out and we took what we wanted, when we wanted, and all of Braedon was afraid of us!"

"That's for certain, Wolf," said Clia, her lilting voice now dripping scorn. "So afraid that they slaughtered unarmed men, women, and children!"

"So we fight back!" roared Freylis. His eyes were bright, burning with fervor. The small hairs on the back of Deveren's neck rose, a primal response to present fear. This was the Freylis he'd been expecting to see emerge tonight: a fanatic.

"Don't you see?" Freylis continued when the group did not immediately respond. "Either we're the hunters, the killers, or we're what they eat! Bear was right-I want to follow where he tried to lead us. We have all the power because we're the ones who break the laws! I say, let's let Braedon know that we won't be intimidated!"

The spirits of more than a few thieves revived under Freylis's tirade. Fear and helplessness gave way to eagerness and arrogance, and some cheers went up.

Deveren's heart sank. 'Thank you, Wolf. Otter, it's your turn."

The Otter, Pedric, had just turned twenty-four but he was a veteran thief. Deveren had been witness to his coolness under pressure before, and this time was no exception. In fact, if anything, Pedric seemed bored by the whole proceedings.

"I've been in this organization for quite a few years now, and I think it's been improved by my participation in it." Murmurs went around the room. Deveren suspected that, while Pedric's statement was undeniably true, his superior attitude wasn't going to win him many votes. "I've got some pretty good social contacts-" here a few people actually burst out laughing at the understatement; like Deveren, Pedric traveled in the very best circles possible, "-and sometimes that comes in handy."

His casual pose bespoke his utter lack of interest. Marrika gazed up at her lover with thinly concealed fury, her expression darkening with every word Pedric uttered in his soft, disinterested voice. Her hand tightened on her knife, and for a moment it looked as if she would like to stab Pedric's leg with the little weapon. Deveren assumed that Pedric was going to be alone in his bed tonight when this was all over.

"Anyway," Pedric continued, "if I'm chosen leader, I'd do my best to fulfill my duties."

He sank down beside Marrika. She stared at him with eyes that sparkled with anger, her lovely face hard and unforgiving. "What?" Pedric asked. "What?"

The other two had spoken, and now all eyes turned to Deveren. He crossed his arms in front of his chest in an unconscious gesture of defense. What he was going to say was, he was certain, not going to be well received.

"I don't think that we as a group call ourselves loyal templegoers." He grinned, and the crowd chuckled. "We know well enough what the gods have to say about us. Light, in particular, couples us with traitors and murderers. I don't know about you, but I'm neither of those. There's a saying, that there is no honor among thieves. I say, that's a lie, and I want you all to help me prove it.

"What I would do as leader is to prove that there is honor, that there is fair play and some kind of decency- that the title of thief doesn't have to taste like filth in our own mouths. Wolf speaks of unity, of reclaiming lost pride, and I'm all for that. But where is the pride in butchery? Last week's… haul… got us some trinkets, yes. But the three councilmen we ambushed last Travsdae were unarmed, trapped in their carriage. I don't think there's too damn much to be proud of in running a blade through men as if they were rabbits in a hutch."

Freylis frowned, his rough face made more malevolent than ever with the slow flush of anger. Now he bellowed, "By Lady Death, you want to castrate us!"

Others joined the outburst, crying "Make us weak!" "We're criminals, not king's men!" "Quit slumming and go back where you belong!" Some of the catcalls came from people that Deveren had considered friends, and the insults stung. But he had known that his idea, revolutionary and alien, would not be understood-at least not at first.

"You don't understand!" he shouted, his strong, clear voice barely heard above the din. "Don't you know what went on at the Whale's Tail? Those weren't our own city guards, you fools, those were hired assassins!"

The single, dreadful word "assassins" was heard above the growing clamor, and the group fell silent, shocked. In the sudden quiet, Deveren continued.

"I know the guards. I'm friends with the captain. Don't you think I'd have warned you if anything like this was going to happen?"

"Maybe they didn't want anyone to know," said Clia uneasily.

"Even so, think for a moment. We all know Vandaris. Does anyone here seriously believe that he would have given the order for that kind of a bloodbath? And the constabulary-do you really think they'd be able to carry out something like that so quickly-and so successfully?" No one replied. Deveren began to feel, for the first time that evening, that maybe he might win.

"Besides, Allika, who's got as sharp an eye as anyone I know, tells me they were all in black. Had soot smeared on their faces." He lifted his hands and mimed the gesture, underscoring the point. "Now, as Otter said, there are advantages to social position. My brother's an ambassador, and thanks to him I know assassin technique and costume when I hear about it. We had gone too far when we killed those councilmen, and someone high up- very high up-wanted it stopped." He grinned without humor. 'There's a balance, my friends, between crime and honest labor, and whoever did this knows the politics of such a situation very well indeed. This wasn't an outraged citizenry trying to quash a few cutpurses. Whoever did this doesn't care if we steal. They want us to know our place. The murders in the Whale's Tail were a message, and by the gods, we're going to either listen to it or be destroyed. Next time, they won't spare Allika-or you-" he pointed at Rabbit, who paled visibly, "-or you" and Clia glanced down at her tightly laced fingers. "It's simple. Change, or die. I know how we can change. I know techniques, tricks, other things I can teach you. Now, either you choose me and let me help-let me lead you-or I'm leaving the group. This out-and-out war with assassins is too risky a game even for a gambling man like me."

His appeal to their noble sensibilities had failed, but his harsh, truthful assessment of their current danger had given his colleagues pause. There was a long silence, as the thieves digested the new information. At last Rabbit, who had been sitting in a corner quietly observing everything, stepped forward.

"Are we ready to vote?" The thieves nodded and a few voiced affirmatives. "Then let's be about it. It's been a long time since we've had to do this, so let me explain the process. I've collected pebbles and beads in three different colors-gray, black, and white. Everyone gets one of each."

He began handing out the pebbles as he continued to explain the voting system. "Wolf is gray, Otter is black, and Fox is white. Think hard about your choice, and when you've made your decision, drop the appropriate pebble in the box in the corner."

He peered back at Deveren, then glanced over at Pedric and Freylis. "The candidates will please cast their own votes first, so they don't know who's voting for or against them."

Freylis went first. He tossed his gray pebble in with undue force, glowering back at Deveren. Pedric then dropped his own bead into the box. When Deveren reached to deposit his own vote, he was surprised and moved to see a white bead, not a black, next to Freylis's gray.

He cast his own vote and went back to his place, watching the eyes of the thieves as, one by one, they stepped forward to make the decision that would have a vital impact on their lives. Deveren tried to read their faces. It was no easy task in the dim lighting, and thieves, more than most folk, learned early on how to cloak their expressions. Not for the first time, Deveren wished he had his brother's gift of mind magic. There were times when it would definitely be useful to be able to read thoughts. When it was done, Rabbit rose.

"I'm going to count the votes. Um, Cat, Sparrow, would you come with me? No one can accuse me of cheating then," he added grumpily. Cat and Sparrow nodded and accompanied him to the front room.

No one spoke. Freylis shifted uncomfortably. Pedric and Marrika argued in sharp, sibilant whispers. Many turned their gazes upon the candidates, though their votes had already been cast, and Deveren met each pair of eyes with evenness.

Rabbit opened the door. Cat and Sparrow followed. Every person in the room tensed. The slim, older man cast a nervous glance at Freylis, gave a smile to Pedric. Then his squinty blue eyes met Deveren's.

"Congratulations, Leader Fox."

Deveren let out the breath he'd been holding with an audible whoosh. Suddenly he found himself in the middle of a throng of well-wishers. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to congratulate their new leader and shake his hand.

No, not quite everyone. The door banged shut, and he looked up to see that Marrika and Pedric had gone. Freylis, looking angrier than Deveren had ever seen him, was following suit, shadowed by a few of his loyal devotees. Their expressions were sullen and their eyes glittered with a smoldering hatred. Deveren knew that, while he had a host of new, probably false, friends, he had also made a few true enemies.

Through the press of people eager to ingratiate themselves with him, he felt the pressure of small arms going around his waist. He glanced down to see Allika beaming up at him, and an unexpected lump rose in his throat. To the Nightlands with Freylis and his group of malcontents. The child grinning up at him with delight shining in her eyes was the reason he had wanted the position. She was the future of the thieves' group, and more than he wanted to enrich the thieves, he wanted to protect them.

"As you know, Fox, you've got a job to do before the election's official." Rabbit's voice managed to float to Deveren's ears over the babbling of the crowd, but Deveren didn't quite catch the words. "Quiet, everyone, please," he urged, and the chattering fell silent. "What did you say, Rabbit?"

"There's still the Grand Theft," explained Rabbit patiently. Deveren's brow furrowed. He wasn't familiar with the term. 'The Grand Theft is your proof that you're worthy. Not," he added hastily, "that we think otherwise. Tradition, you know. We'll all meet sometime in the near future and decide on an item for you to steal."

"What kind of item?"

"Could be anything — the bell from the Godstower, perhaps, or a woman's brooch while she's wearing it, something like that. We'll inform you of our decision. In the meantime," he looked apologetic, "until we can put Leader Fox's plan of reformation into effect, I'll have to urge everyone to be going. We've been here a while now, and

…" his voice trailed off and he shrugged his thin shoulders.

"Of course," replied Deveren swiftly. "By ones and twos, everyone. I'll go first, just in case we've been spotted and someone's planning an ambush."

He didn't think so. The assassins had come, done their job, and left. If they had meant to eliminate every thief in Braedon, they would have already done it. Nonetheless, his offer, as he had intended, was regarded as a sign of his courage. He heard the murmur of approval and half hid a smile.

The night street was empty. Cool, moist air ruffled his light brown hair. He breathed deeply, tasting the slight tang of salt on the breeze. His ebullience stayed with him during the long walk home. He hadn't dared ride to the meeting, as the sight of a horse tethered outside the store would have drawn unwanted attention, and Flamedancer was unmistakable. The walk, though, was pleasant. The streets were deserted, the night still. Deveren enjoyed this hour, when the normally bustling port city was resting.

He passed a few of the temples as he took the road that led up to the hills and the better part of town. The temple to Light was, of course, brilliantly illuminated. Made of wood and stone, it was set apart by its many expensive windows of real glass. Some segments were stained, and Deveren had to admit that the rainbow of illumination was beautiful and appealing. The temple of Light was the only lit building in the area. At this hour, even the lamps that lined the city streets had been permitted to burn out.

He passed a guard post stationed on the road and saw the armed men standing over a makeshift brazier, for the bite of the sea wind could turn even summer nights chilly. One of them raised his hand and cried a halloo. It was more than a simple greeting; though polite, it was a challenge. Should Deveren not respond, not have a good reason to be out at this hour, the guards would be on him in a minute.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Deveren called back.

"Late night, m'lord Larath?" the guard who had hailed him asked.

Deveren chuckled, easy in their company. "Very late. I'm getting too old for midnight card games, I'm afraid."

The guardsmen, completely reassured, laughed comfortably. "Need an escort home, Deveren?" came a voice, deeper and more direct than the others. Deveren recognized the guard commander, Telian Jaranis. Things were serious indeed if the commander was taking to dropping by the guard posts at this hour.

"Well, good evening, Captain-or, good morning, rather. No, thank you, the walk'll help sober me up. Besides, my luck wasn't good at the tables tonight-I'd make a poor target for a thief." "As you wish, sir."

Deveren continued on, humming a little to himself as the temples gave way to long stretches of flat, unused land. The wind shifted, bringing a sudden blessing of fragrance to Deveren's nostrils. He smiled. He knew he was close to home when he could smell the Garden.

Planted by and paid for by all the residents of the Square, as the most fashionable area of Braedon was known, the wall-encircled Garden was an enormous plot of land filled to bursting with the most beautiful and fragrant of flowers. There were many varieties of trees and shrubs as well, even a complex maze in which it was very easy to get lost-if one didn't know the secret. Deveren thought it a terrible shame that it wasn't open to the public; apparently, the richer folk of the city felt that the enjoyment of such beauty, bought and paid for by them, should be limited to them.

His own house, a comparatively modest stone-and-wood construction with only two stories and a tiny stable, was the first one on the right. The small patch of ground surrounding it boasted a wrought iron fence that bore the Larath family crest, and those who had visited Deveren knew that the deceptively humble home was furnished in a most tasteful and gracious manner. And Deveren's home had windows-thick, wavy-glassed windows. That alone marked him as a man of means.

Deveren's brisk stride faltered, stopped.

One of the first-floor windows had light streaming through it. He had left the house dark. One of the servants? Deveren quickly dismissed that thought. They'd have left for their own domiciles hours ago.

A sudden dewing of cold sweat dotted his forehead. He'd been wrong. It seemed as though the assassins hadn't finished their job, after all.