King's man and thief

CHAPTER FOUR

Braedon was an old city, one of the oldest in Byrn, existing by its present name and in similar incarnations for the better part of eight centuries. The name literally meant "place on the hill," and harkened back to a time when men had used the natural harbor and protective ring of surrounding mountains mainly as a defense against the Ghil. Trade had come later, after the more immediate struggle to eliminate the Ghil eventually drove the foul creatures ever northward, and humans rose in ascendancy.

Now the quiet natural harbor of centuries past was a bustling place of merchants and sailors, and those who made their living off of them. A few travelers, Damir among them, availed themselves of the perfectly serviceable road called Ocean's View that cut straight through Braedon and continued east through the mountains that protectively encircled the harbor city. The three ill-fated councilmen, brutally murdered by Bear and his cohorts, had been traveling along this road. But by far the greatest traffic in the city came by ship.

The worst parts of town were located "so near the water as t' be wet theyselves," as some of the inhabitants boasted. These were inns and taverns that catered to the needs of the often harsh men who did the actual sailing of the vessels. The farther east in Braedon one went, the better the environs grew. Continuing along Ocean's View, one passed the temples erected to the seven deities of Byrn and Mhar: Love, Light, Health, Traveler, Hope/Despair, Death, and Vengeance. Here, too, on a raised dais, were the stocks and, though not as often used, the gallows.

In the center of this area was a huge stone pillar called the Godstower. A single iron bell, over two hundred years old, hung from the top of the construct. The Godstower bell was rung seven times each day by the Blessers of each faith. Dawn was Light's time. Midmorning belonged to Love. Health's bell rang at midday. Traveler's Blesser pulled the rope in the afternoon. Twilight, that time of not quite day or night, belonged to the twin-countenanced Hope/Despair. Death sounded her knell when night was well on its way, and the middle of the darkness was Vengeance's domain. The gods lent their names, too, to the days of the week: Lisdae, Losdae, Healsdae, Trvsdae HoDesdae, Desdae, and Venedae.

Even farther down the road were the fine homes and more exclusive inns, gambling houses, and other forms of entertainment for the very well-to-do. Here, too, was the beautiful Garden, the pride and joy of the rich.

As Death's knell rang out on Travsdae, a scant five nights after the brutal murders of half the thieves of Braedon, the celebrants enjoying themselves in Deveren's lovely home paid the sound no mind. Deveren sipped honey wine from a gorgeous silver chalice and grinned to himself.

He enjoyed entertaining, and the pleasure never faded. There was little else, besides his beloved plays, that satisfied him as completely as hosting a gathering. The gentle, unobtrusive sounds of harp, flute, lute, and lyre; the happy buzz of good conversation; the glow on the guests' faces; the lavish spread of fine foods; the shrill punctuation of pleasant laughter-these intoxicated the handsome Lord Larath. People still talked about some of the parties he and Kastara had hosted, in their joyful, agonizingly brief time as husband and wife.

Deveren took another sip of the sweet fluid to hide the momentary flash of sorrow that flitted across his face. I still miss you so, my love, he thought. Regaining his composure, Deveren moved smoothly, inconspicuously, through the crowd of guests, making quiet notes as to who had attended and who was chatting with whom. His entire home was open and filled with light. Guests could wander anywhere and often did, from the dining hall where dinner had been held a few hours ago to the small armory just off the hall, from Deveren's beautifully decorated bedchamber to the tiny, romantic room atop the faux turret that adorned the house.

"Absolutely wonderful honey wine, Deveren!" came Pedric's voice at his ear. "Imported?" His host shook his head. "Only from down the street. When he's not pouring ale or serving terrible food, old Jankiss at the Cat and Dog makes this."

"Dear gods, you're joking!" Pedric stared with wonder at the goblet in his manicured hand. "You can get this at the Cat and Dog?"

Deveren laughed. "No, Jankiss makes it, but he doesn't serve it there. I pay him far better than any of his customers would."

"Sweet Love, I shall have to do what I can to undercut you and get some of this nectar myself," replied Pedric.

Deveren laughed, took another sip of the superb wine from lowly origins, and continued to peruse the room.

Damir, looking elegant in black hose and a short houppelande of royal blue, was deep in conversation with Lord Vandaris. Deveren smiled to himself. Though the celebration was allegedly being held in Damir's honor, Deveren's brother had eyes only for the man who could help him most-the white-haired, good-natured head of the Braedon Council. Deveren estimated that it wouldn't be long before Damir steered Vandaris into a less public corner for some more private political conversation. He was right; a moment later, Vandaris leaned over to his daughter to excuse himself.

"Good gods!" yelped Pedric, startling Deveren. "Who is that lovely creature?"

Deveren smiled to himself. "Won't Marrika be jealous?"

Pedric's handsome mouth contorted in a sneer of disgust. "The unlamented Marrika has been consigned to the pages of history, old friend. Now, tell me about this vision talking so affectionately to our dear councilman-" he stopped abruptly. "And don't tell me that she's his daughter!"

"Alas," said Deveren, mimicking Pedric's affected banter, "I must say that indeed the fair Lorinda is the child of our good Vandaris." His voice dropped, and there was no laughter in it now. "I'd steer clear of her if I were you. The last thing one of us wants to do is get messed up with a councilman's family-especially Vandaris."

Clearly, Pedric had not heard him. He was staring, enraptured, at Vandaris's only child. And Deveren had to admit, there was much at which to stare. The young woman was tall, and her lustrous hair fell free about her shoulders. Most of her sisters in high society wore their hair either bound or piled atop their heads, laced with jewelry. Lorinda did not wear much jewelry at all. but her gown, though simple, draped her like the finest ornament. Her face was likewise bare, free of the often garish cosmetics that wealthy women used to color their lips, eyes, and mouth. Her skin was tanned, another departure from the current, milk-white fashion, and she seemed to like to laugh a great deal.

"I knew she'd been gone and had finally come home. Everybody knew that. But-" Pedric, for perhaps the first time in his life, was at a loss for words.

"She's been gone twelve years," Deveren explained. "Lorinda was sent at the age of eight to be one of the Tenders at Love's temple in Kasselton. When the former Blesser stepped down, she selected someone else to follow her as Blesser, so Lorinda returned home. This is the first time I've seen her make an appearance in public. Perhaps I should ask after her, see if she wants anything." He dead-panned this last line, and took a step toward the beautiful woman.

"Ah, no, Dev, I think I'll go convey your greetings for you." Pedric was moving before he had finished the sentence, and Deveren watched him go, worry in his hazel eyes.

So, thought Pedric as he stepped smoothly beside Lorinda, she's fresh out of the temple, eh? Shouldn't be too hard…

"Good evening, milady Lorinda. Welcome back to Braedon. I understand that you've just recently returned." He smiled charmingly. "Love's loss. I can tell just by looking at your fair face that you would have made a superb Blesser of Love."

He reached for her hand to kiss it, but somehow Lorinda managed to gracefully evade him. The look she shot him was decidedly cool. "Thank you for your welcome, milord…?"

"Pedric Dunsan, Lord Asakinn. But I'd like it if you'd call me Pedric." Again he tried for her hand, snared it this time, and brought it to his lips. It was surprisingly callused, but not unattractive. He attempted to turn it over, to place a feathery kiss on the sensitive wrist, when suddenly the workrough hand of the beauty of the hour wasn't there. He almost kissed his own hand, but recovered quickly.

"I'd prefer to keep things formal, Lord Asakinn."

Her voice was icy. If she was playing with him, she was doing it well. Mockingly, Pedric shivered. 'Trifle cold in here for early summer, don't you think? The winds usually blow," and he paused for effect, "warm and soft."

The brilliant dark eyes narrowed. "Excuse me."

She wasn't playing. She was serious. The realization unsettled him.

"No, wait!" The plea held none of the false calculation of his earlier chat, and Lorinda hesitated. Pedric swallowed. Her fragrance, a mixture of rose and honeysuckle, was devastating.

"I'm afraid I've made a bit of a fool of myself," he stammered. Her full lips twitched. She did not contradict him.

He took a deep breath. All or nothing, then.

Out it came. "All right: I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, despite the fact that you're not wearing any of those horrible cosmetics, or, I don't know, maybe because you're not wearing them, and I mean that, and I'm fascinated by the fact that you spent twelve years in Love's temple, and I think I'd truly like to get to know you better." He finished, and looked at her pleadingly.

"You look like a puppy," she said, but not unkindly.

His heart lifted, just a little, and the old playfulness returned in some small measure. "If I had a tail, I'd be thumping it on the floor, but I don't. I must content myself with looking pathetic and hoping my mistress will toss me a crumb of her affection."

Mirth played about her face, and finally she surrendered to it. She laughed easily, like a child, and Pedric felt his heart speed up at what merriment did to her already lovely visage.

"I'm afraid I owe you an apology," she said. Her voice, when warmed with friendliness, was music. "Ever since I've been back, I've been… well… almost attacked by young men who think that simply because I served the goddess Love I'm ready to sexually oblige anyone who asks."

Pedric blushed at her frank language. Never had he heard a woman — well, at least a woman of quality-speak so bluntly before. He also blushed at his own guilt. That had, of course, been exactly what he had thought.

While all the gods were honored in Byrn, Love was perhaps the favorite. Depicted as a naked little girl playing with a fawn, Love was the gentlest and most forgiving of the divinities. Her Blesser had a unique, and powerful, role. When young men reached the age of thirteen, they were sometimes called to Love's Blesser. She would be their instructor in the art of physical loving; to be selected by her was an honor. Like all the priests, Love's Blesser had attendants, known as Tenders. These children were selected from the better families to serve for twelve years. When they reached the age of twenty, a Tender would either be chosen to replace the Blesser as the new Blesser of the temple, or else her time of servitude had ended and she returned home. Pedric had assumed that a child used to being around so much sexual activity would have matured into a woman with "loose morals."

"Just because the act is familiar to me doesn't mean I have no reverence for it. The Tenders, you know, don't participate in the Rite of Initiation, just the Blesser. And it makes me furious that people would think…!" Lorinda's tanned face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "It's- it's very difficult to come back to the world outside of the temple when you've been sheltered there so long, that's all. And I've probably offended you and I'll get a lecture from my father tonight."

Pedric shook his dark head. "No, you've not offended me," he said softly. "Far from it." He held up a finger, shook it, and in a lighter voice, he added, "Let me try this again."

He mockingly cleared his throat. "Welcome back to Braedon, milady Lorinda. My name is Pedric Dunsan. How may I help you enjoy your evening?"

Lorinda laughed, then matched Pedric's playful artifice with her own. "Ah, sirrah, I am quite parched. Might I have a sip of your wine?" She dropped the pretense and added innocently, "Papa said it was awfully good, but I haven't been able to get the server's attention."

'That I find hard to believe," said Pedric as he handed her the glass. She placed her lips where his had been and took a drink. In another woman, such a gesture would have been deliberate flirtation. Lorinda merely wanted a sip of wine.

The gesture was highly erotic, despite — no, because of- its lack of contrivance. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that this woman was, in her own innocent fashion, far more dangerous than a thief with his knife, but he was utterly captivated. He had a dreadful suspicion that he was halfway in love with her already, and when she smiled and handed the goblet back, he surrendered utterly, and willingly fell the rest of the way.

In Deveren's library, Damir quietly pulled the heavy oak door closed behind him and turned to face Vandaris. A single lamp glowed on the small circular table. The table and two chairs, simply carved but functional and sturdy, were the only pieces of furniture, if one didn't include the massive bookcases that covered nearly every inch of bare wall. Deveren loved the smell and feel of books, but Damir wondered how much time his brother actually spent reading the books in his extensive library.

Vandaris seated himself and looked up expectantly. "Well?"

Damir put a thin finger to his lips. He went to the window and cursed silently. Deveren hadn't had time to replace the window he had damaged when Damir had shown up a few nights ago, and the small hole in the pane let in the sweet scent of the blooming Garden. It also would make it easy for an eavesdropper to have perfect access to the conversation. Well, it couldn't be helped. Damir glanced left and right into the darkness, trying to sense the thoughts of anyone present. He saw, and sensed, nobody and turned back to face the head councilman of Braedon.

"How much has Deveren told you about me?" he asked. He walked back to the other end of the room, so that in order to watch him Vandaris would have to face the door, not the window. Damir had no desire to explain how that window had gotten broken.

Vandaris looked puzzled. "Your reputation precedes you, my lord. Your good brother hasn't had to say much. I'd venture to say that every lawman and councilman in Byrn knows of His Lordship Damir Larath, ambassador of His Majesty. You've got a bit of a nickname in the diplomatic circles, you know." His old eyes twinkled with mirth. 'They call you the Problem Solver."

Surprised and amused, Damir laughed aloud. "Do they really?"

"Mmmmm," affirmed Vandaris. 'They say that if only the king would send you, and not his armies, to confront the Ghil, you'd have a treaty signed within a week."

"Quite the compliment. And do you say that, Lord Vandaris?"

"I'm an old man, and I've seen a great deal in my day. I don't take the measure of a man by his reputation alone," Vandaris replied. "I like to see, and converse with, someone before I'll credit him with miracle making."

"No miracles, alas, but I do indeed solve problems."

"And what problem do you intend to solve here in Braedon?" Vandaris leaned back comfortably in the chair, but his eyes never left Damir's. "What problem is too big, or delicate, or dangerous, that we simple councilmen here can't handle it?"

Tread gently, Damir thought. Of course, Vandaris was wary. He assumed that Damir was in Braedon because of the recent murders. What a shock that must have been. Damir wondered how they were explaining it; probably as a tavern brawl that had gotten out of hand. The populace might not question that-as long as the exact number of bodies hadn't been made public.

Damir hesitated, then decided to trust Vandaris. His spies had reported nothing but positive things about the chief councilman of Braedon. And his own delicate mental probing of the man revealed nothing to contradict those reports.

"The problem to be solved involves Braedon only indirectly. The real problem — " a brief pause to sense once again for other minds; they were indeed alone "-originates in Mhar. That troubled country may very soon be in a state of war with Byrn. The young king wishes to conduct secret peace negotiations before things get to that point. In fact, he may come here seeking more than a place to negotiate-he may come to Braedon seeking asylum, at least temporarily. I can make the city safe to a certain degree, but I'll need cooperation from you and perhaps the entire Council. Do I have it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox -

The Fox is clever, the Fox is wise;

The Fox is getting a big surprise -

Because your Theft is not one, but three

If truly our Leader you wish to be.

We leave to you the how and when,

But the where must be the councilman's den.

The Fox gives Fox a taste quite fine, When out of his head you drink your wine.

The hounds will chase, the hounds will tear Your flesh, unless their teeth you bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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