King's man and thief

CHAPTER SIX

Deveren was in high spirits as he rode Flamedancer into the bustling crowd that glutted the marketplace. At age ten, the gelding was well into his adult years, but he still had the fiery spirit which had inspired the first half of his name.

The wind was coming from the west, bearing with it the strong, familiar scent of fish and seawater. The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the similarly salty but not so pleasant tang of human sweat. Deveren grimaced slightly. Summer was indeed well on its way; he didn't like to imagine what Market Day would smell like two months from now.

From his elevated perch atop his steed's broad back, Deveren had a good view of all the market stalls. He found what he was looking for-a sign that stated "Griel's Apothecary," with smaller letters proclaiming "Herbs, Incense, Teas, Baths, Cures For All Manor of Ailmints." Griel was intelligent, no doubt, but he couldn't spell worth a copper penny. Smothering a grin, Deveren urged his mount through the pressing crowd of people. The animal, uncomfortable around so many humans, laid his ears back resentfully but complied. The great chestnut horse picked his way through the throng, lifting and placing his powerful hooves down with the surprisingly delicate grace that had earned him the second part of his name.

Deveren dismounted, letting the animal's reins trail in the dust. No one would steal Flamedancer. Deveren was known in these parts, if only as Fox rather than Lord Deveren Larath, and that was enough to ensure the horse's safety. No thief in his group would touch the beast, and they were well aware that they would probably make more money reporting a theft to Deveren rather than aiding a would-be horse stealer. He gave Flamedancer an absent pat on his sweat-darkened neck and went inside the building.

"Good morning, Griel," he called, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He saw the thin, elderly man assisting several customers. Griel turned at the sound of his name, and the expression on his face when he saw Deveren changed from slightly annoyed to apprehensive.

"Oh, good morning, Lord Larath. I'll be with you in a moment, sir." He turned directly back to his customers. "For your son's respiratory problem, I would suggest this tincture of sundew and hyssop. Mix one drop with ten parts water and have him drink it twice a day before he eats. It will ease his breathing." He glanced again at the boy, a thin, wheezing child with large dark eyes. The boy glared back sullenly, his little chest heaving. "Mix it with a little honey," Griel added. The boy brightened a bit.

The mother smiled warmly, fished a few coins out of her pouch and handed them to Griel. The older man's thin fingers closed over the money as he waved his patrons politely toward the door. He shut the door behind them and leaned against it.

"Fox, you know I can't do anything to help you. You must complete the Grand Theft completely without aid from any the rest of us."

Deveren feigned innocence. "Sweet Health, Rabbit, can't I patronize a fellow thief without being accused of ulterior motives?"

"You've never bought from me before," Rabbit said, still suspicious.

Deveren shrugged his shoulders lazily. "I happened to be passing by. But, if you're convinced that I'm trying to enlist your aid in my Grand Theft-or Thefts, I should say- then I'll take my business elsewhere. There are certainly other apothecaries in Braedon." His voice wasn't angry, and in fact he was speaking the truth. If Rabbit proved recalcitrant, he could always go somewhere else. He took a step toward the door, and the herbalist's cupidity won the battle.

"All right, all right, but if you are going to use anything I sell to accomplish your task, I didn't know about it. So, what do you need?"

"First of all, some pine soap."

Rabbit raised a thin eyebrow. "Bit early for hunting season, isn't it? No, don't tell me — I don't want to know. 'Spensive, too. I suppose I should have known you'd prefer the best," he said. He trundled over to a shelf where a variety of soaps, sorted by scent, were piled. Pine did not grow well this far south and this close to the ocean. It had to be imported from the northern climes and was only occasionally made into soap. Its primary users were wealthy landowners who enjoyed hunting; the strong, natural odor of the pine completely obliterated human scent and gave them an edge over their prey. Few cities south of Kasselton had any pine at all, but Braedon was a major port city. Everything in Verold had passed through here at one time or another. If you looked hard enough in the town, you could find just about anything.

Finally Rabbit found a lone cake wrapped in dark green cloth. "You're lucky. That's the last one, but I'll be getting more in toward the end of the summer."

"Excellent," Deveren approved. "Next, I've been having trouble sleeping lately." Rabbit's thin lips twitched in a slight smile. "Guilty conscience?"

"Not in the slightest," Deveren responded, chuckling a little himself. "I suppose I'm a bit tense, with the Grand Thefts coming up. What do you recommend?"

"I have a special tincture for sleeplessness already made up. It contains vervain, chamomile, mugwort, a few other similar herbs. Ah, here it is. Mind, this is an extremely strong preparation, so you don't need much. Just a spoonful about an hour before bed should work just fine. Don't increase the dosage."

"Why not?" Deveren uncorked the vial and sniffed gently. There was the faintest whiff of rum and the not-so-pleasant fragrance of the bitter, earthy herbs themselves.

"Because if you take more than I tell you to take, you'll be sleeping for a week. As I said, strong."

"Just what I need. How much?" Deveren reached into his bulging pouch, rummaging among the gems and gold kings for more common coinage. A few items tumbled to the hard-packed earth that served as a floor for the shop. Deveren knelt and hastily picked them up, glancing toward the door as he did so.

"Death's breath, Fox!" hissed Rabbit, his parsimonious nature offended by Deveren's cavalier treatment of valuables. "Empty the damned thing once in a while, will you? Our group isn't quite the noble robbers that you'd like us to be, at least not yet!"

Before the apothecary could blink, a slim, needle-sharp dagger had appeared in Deveren's hand. It seemed to have materialized from nowhere. A second later the weapon quivered in the wooden countertop a fraction of an inch from the startled Rabbit's left hand-exactly where the leader of the thieves had aimed it.

"I've got good reactions," drawled Deveren. "But don't think the friendly advice isn't appreciated. Now, how much?"

Shaking, Rabbit clutched his nearly missed hand with his right one. "Uh… two princes, Your Lordship."

The man's face was milk pale, and Deveren regretted his impulse to show off before Rabbit. After all, the apothecary was more or less on his side to begin with. He badly wanted to bring the price up to a king-a gold piece-by way of apology, but he knew such generosity would merely further damage his reputation in Rabbit's eyes. Thief leaders were expected to be fair, perhaps after a fine haul even generous, but they never overpaid.

So he contented himself with dropping the two silver princes on the counter, thanking Rabbit, and leaving the poor man alone for the day.

Alone in his solar, Deveren worked the fresh-scented pine soap into a lather and proceeded to bathe his entire body and hair. As his fingers scrubbed his scalp, his mind went back, as it did every time he sat in this tub, to the last night that Kastara was alive. Even after the passage of seven years, the pain always caught him by surprise. It was nowhere near as overwhelming as in the beginning, of course. Nor was it as constant a thread running through the fabric of his day-to-day activities. But occasionally an odd phrase, or image, or scent, would come to whisper her name to him, and Deveren would feel his heart actually ache, as though squeezed by an unseen hand.

And for some reason, this innocuous wooden tub seemed to be the one thing that always triggered her image in his mind.

You don't have very long to get ready.

I told you, I'm not going.

It's a premiere. You're expected to attend premieres, love. That's why you 're called a patron.

I won't enjoy it without you. I don't like leaving you alone here while I'm off enjoying myself. It doesn't seem fair.

We'll be fine.

Oh, but she hadn't been fine, had she, not she, not the child she carried. Gods, he could almost hear her, could almost feel her smooth little hands washing his back…

The soft plop of a teardrop landing in the soapy water jolted him out of his reverie. Deveren took a deep, shuddering breath and bathed his face with the soap.

Kastara was gone. He had mourned her, and would, he felt certain, continue mourning her for the rest of his life. But now he had other people who depended upon him. He had come to the thieves thinking to expose and kill a murderer. He had stayed to help them, and had made them a promise. If he failed at his Grand Thefts tonight, someone like Freylis would take over the group. Everyone, from Pedric to Clia to little Allika, would suffer then.

No. He rose, shook off his moodiness, and began to towel himself dry. Experimentally, he took a sniff at his forearm. "I feel like a forest in springtime," he quipped, the old sense of humor that had come to the rescue so often in the past returning to him now. He truly did smell like an evergreen forest, at least to his own nose. He only hoped the three large, rather unfriendly dogs that guarded the Vandaris home would agree.

The Councilman's Seat was located in the heart of the Garden. Deveren could see it from his window as he finished dressing-a beautiful, large building that was as much a landmark in Braedon as the Godstower. The upper level hosted the current Head Councilman and his family, complete with dining rooms, gaming rooms, wine cellar, and a huge hall that would, tonight, serve as the stage for The Queen of All. Well below the finery were the cells in which prisoners awaited judgement. Deveren had always though it ironic that the only time a commoner could see the Garden was if he were sentenced for a crime. On the other hand, it was terribly civilized that Braedon's criminals had a pleasant view while they waited for sentencing.

He toyed with the idea of riding, and decided to walk. He might need to slip off without being noticed once the thefts were completed, and didn't want to have to worry about retrieving Flamedancer from Vandaris's stables. Besides, it was a lovely summer evening.

So Deveren selected breeches and boots rather than slippers and hose. Instead of clothing that he wore often, tonight Deveren chose a blousey red silk shirt and over-tunic that he had tucked away in a chest of cedar wood for several weeks. It would be less likely to retain his scent.

He grinned a little. Cedar and pine, how refreshing.

There was nothing he could do about his walking boots, save hope that there was more of Flamedancer about them than Deveren Larath. As he adjusted his pouches, making sure that the false bottoms wouldn't reveal the second space beneath, he mentally reviewed his challenge. Part of the "test," he assumed, lay in deciphering the code and figuring out just exactly what it was "his" thieves wanted him to acquire. Or it could be simply a case of young Pedric having a little fun-well, a lot of fun-at his expense. Deveren hoped that he wouldn't be disqualified if he, for some reason, didn't steal the correct items. Freylis would be overjoyed.

The thought of the big man erased any hint of a smile from Deveren's lips. Others were attending the theatrical performance for pleasure. He was certain they would find it- The Queen of All was a fine play. He, however, had a job to do.

He was glad he had chosen to walk. The air was thick with the scents of the Garden, which bloomed almost all year round with one sort of plant or another. Only in the dead of winter was the Garden anything less than redolent with fragrance. Now, in summer, the scent was almost as intoxicating as wine.

The play wasn't due to start for a while yet, and Vandaris's guests milled about, enjoying the balmy evening. They stood on the magnificent stone steps, draped themselves across the finely carved wood-and-stone benches, walked in groups or pairs through the paths. As Deveren approached the entrance, he was met by one of Captain Jaranis's men.

"Good even, Lord Larath," said the guard courteously. "I'm afraid I have to ask you to submit to a search, sir. What with the deaths of them three councilmen and all…"

"Of course," Deveren replied smoothly. The guard patted him down gently, respectfully, and halfheartedly, clearly not expecting to find anything. He glanced briefly into the pouches and nodded, indicating that Deveren might proceed.

This boded well. He'd been able to smuggle in nearly all of his tools — the larger tools, such as heavy metal crowbars he had, of course, been forced to forgo-and hadn't aroused the slightest suspicion.

The Councilman's Seat was surrounded by a stone wall. Within was Vandaris's private garden, a section of the Garden allotted for his personal use. There was even a maze, smaller and far easier to navigate than the main one in the center of the larger Garden. The dogs weren't out yet; Vandaris would wait until all his guests were safely inside before loosing the beasts.

Time to move on to another item, then. He'd get the dogs' "teeth" later in the evening. As he moved through the lovely home, admiring the Head Councilman's fine taste in art and furnishings, Deveren thought about the rhymes he'd memorized.

That first challenge, at least, was easy to figure out. The trick was in getting Vandaris to take him there.

He turned a comer, following the murmur of voices, and was rewarded by the sight of Lord Vandaris himself, chatting politely with his guests. Deveren felt a smile of satisfaction tug at his lips. The room was one of Vandaris's favorites, a smaller, more intimate, and more personal chamber than many in the Seat. The room was filled with the Head Councilman's hunting trophies. Like most of the landed nobility, Vandaris was an avid hunter. His one regret, he had told Deveren once, was that, now that he was Head Councilman, he couldn't escape from Braedon often enough to pursue his favorite hobby anymore.

The walls were covered with tapestries depicting hunting scenes. One, commissioned by Vandaris himself, showed the lord-a considerably younger, slimmer man-pursuing a unicorn. Not that such creatures existed, of course, but when the art was that lovely and dramatic, who could object?

Skulls of various creatures — deer, wolf, bear, and others-had been placed around the room. There was also a fine display of riding regalia and hunting bows, spears and other weaponry. Vandaris sat on a cushioned chair, chatting animatedly with two other members of the Council. Over in the corner, Damir, who had left earlier in order to have another private talk with Vandaris, was admiring a carving of a leaping stag. Pedric and Lorinda sat closely together on a cushioned bench. They had eyes only for each other, and found excuses to casually touch. Deveren had never seen Pedric like this before. He tried to brush aside his worry. In the end, when it counted, he knew Pedric to be a good man. And Lorinda, clearly, was a special woman indeed.

At last, Deveren found what he was looking for. He took a deep breath and prayed that his plan would work. If not, he would have tipped his hand.

Casually, he wandered over to what he had determined was the first "item" on his list for tonight. It sat on a small table, seeming to taunt him.

It was a riding cup, shaped like the slim, elegant head of a fox. Its purpose was to provide liquid refreshment to hunters on horseback. When so employed, it fitted neatly into a special place on the saddle, hooked in place by its slender muzzle. When the rider wanted a drink of wine, the head was turned upside down, revealing a hollow cup into which the beverage was poured. The Fox gives Fox a taste quite fine,/When out of his head you drink your wine.

This had to be it. Picking it up, he examined it, as if he hadn't seen dozens like this before. "This is quite nice, Your Lordship. May I ask who the maker is?"

As he had hoped, Vandaris warmed to the subject. He rose and went to Deveren, taking the little stone shape from him. "That, Lord Larath, I purchased from an obscure stone carver in Kasselton a few years ago. Can't recall his name. It's a bit crude, here-" he pointed at the slightly uneven eyes "-and it's too small. Barely holds enough to moisten your throat. That's why I've consigned it to display rather than putting it to use."

"I like the crooked eyes," said Deveren. "Gives the little fellow personality, don't you think?" Jokingly, he mimed petting the fox between the ears.

Deveren could feel the gazes of Pedric and Damir boring into his back. He ignored them and continued.

"Flamedancer stepped on mine, and I'm without one at the present moment. I rather like this one-don't suppose you'd be willing to sell it?"

Vandaris shook his head, and Deveren's heart sank. Now he'd be forced to steal it, and everyone would remember that Deveren Larath had made much of the small object…

"Goodness, no, Deveren, take the thing if you like it so much. It's been sitting here collecting dust for-well, more years than I care to remember."

Triumph burned in Deveren's heart. "Thank you, sir! It's much appreciated, I assure you. I'll just leave it here and pick it up on my way out."

He had wanted to buy the thing outright. The rhyme had said "take," not "steal," and Deveren wanted to show his thieves that, on occasion, it wasn't necessary to filch something. Sometimes, all one had to do was ask. He heard a muffled cough from Pedric and successfully fought a grin.

A servant appeared at the door and cleared her throat. She dropped a curtsey. "Beggin' your pardon, milord, but the performers have sent word that they're ready."

"Excellent!"' exclaimed Vandaris. "Well then, let us go. When actors are ready, I'm told, making them wait sours the performance. Isn't that right, Deveren?"

They were big, the dogs that Vandaris kept to safeguard his private grounds. Alone in the darkness, Deveren stared over the stone wall at them. The wall was roughly ten feet high, but Deveren had been able to scramble up far enough to get a good look at the true deterrent to would-be burglars. Silvered by moonlight, the large, shaggy beasts stared back. The milky radiance caught their eyes, making them glow eerily. Black flews drew back from powerful yellow teeth as one of them growled at the sight of Deveren.

There came another glint from the shadowy beasts — a glint of metal at the throats. Deveren recalled the second task he'd been set: The hounds will chase, the hounds will tear/Your flesh, unless their teeth you hear.

Leather collars, with sharp metal points embedded in them. Any intruder who thought to hold the beasts off by choking them would have been in for a painful surprise.

The would-be thief leader waited until the growling stopped as the beast tried to catch his scent and failed. His muscles quivered from the strain, but he held his position. The dog cocked its head to one side and made a crooning, puzzled sound. The pine soap had done its job. Satisfied, Deveren dropped quietly down to the earth.

Quickly, he glanced around. He was indeed alone; the guests were engrossed with the performance, and the guards were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they were busy dallying with the serving girls. He took a deep breath, and opened one of the pouches. Carefully removing the false bottom, he felt for the chunks of raw meat he'd smuggled in along with his thieves' tools.

Deveren had taken the sleeping tincture purchased from Rabbit and had mixed the entire bottle with a cupful of lamb's blood. He'd cut up chunks of raw lamb and let them soak in the concoction. Now he fished one out, climbed back up, and tossed it over the wall.

One of the great dogs jumped up and caught the meat in midair, its teeth clicking. It dropped back to the earth, licked its chops, and cocked its head.

Heartened, Deveren shifted his position, found more meat chunks and began to feed the other two. They ate happily, and Deveren wondered if the rules required him to explain how he had accomplished his Grand Thefts. He didn't want to put the idea of poisoning into the head of someone less scrupulous than he.

At last, all the meat that Deveren had brought had been eaten. Grinning, Deveren again jumped down, replaced the false bottom, glanced around again to ensure that he was alone, and waited.

It didn't take long. When next he poked his head over the wall, he saw that the dogs' alert poses had begun to droop. They yawned, and their attempts to continue patrolling their master's ground became staggering shuffles. At last, one by one, they surrendered to the drug and sank down onto their bellies. They placed mammoth heads on large paws, whuffed a time or two, and fell asleep.

Deveren waited, wanting to be sure, then carefully, quietly, began to climb over the stone wall. A movement from the house caught his eye. It was one of the guards, leaving the private grounds, coming out for a perfunctory inspection of No, damn it, it was Captain Jaranis. Deveren mouthed an oath. He was seated astraddle the wall now, one leg already over into a trespasser's territory. Even if he jumped back down to the ground now, the movement would certainly catch the sharp eye of the captain of Braedon's guards, and Deveren would be forced to explain what he was doing out here. The dogs' lassitude would be noted, and Nothing else for it, Deveren decided. He hoped desperately that Rabbit's concoction had had enough time to render the dogs completely unconscious. If not, well, there might not be enough of him left for Telian Jaranis to put into prison. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he eased himself down on the opposite side of the stone wall. He plastered himself against its smooth coldness, sought refuge in its shadow.

A low growl came by his right foot. Deveren froze, fear jolting through his system. He didn't even dare look down at the beast, for fear the eye contact would be regarded as a challenge. Instead, he closed his eyes and wished desperately that he'd brought a dagger with him tonight.

He felt one of the great canines snuffling at his knee, felt the warm breath and cold nose even through his breeches. From the other side of the wall, he heard the crisp, firm sound of booted footsteps approaching.

Deveren held his breath, afraid that his nervous, rapid breathing might give him away, both to the animal that sniffed him with drowsy confusion and the extremely efficient captain who was on patrol just a few yards away.

The dog's nose moved to the other leg, continued sniffing. The booted footsteps came closer, closer, until they were right where Deveren stood huddled in the cold embrace of the wall's shadow. They did not pause, but continued purposefully on, fading into the distance as Jaranis's route took him away from the thief who stood, heart pounding, on the other side of the wall.

The sniffing stopped. The big dog snorted, irritated and baffled by this thing that looked human but smelled like a tree. The warm breath went away. When Deveren chanced a look down at the beast, he found it flopped over on the grass, breathing deeply and regularly.

Deveren closed his eyes in relief, the tension flooding out of him. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he knelt down beside the unconscious animal and gently unfastened its collar. The other two were equally insensible and offered no protest as he relieved them of their symbolic "teeth."

Stuffing the three studded collars into his pouch, Deveren cautiously climbed up and peered over the wall. Remarkably, his luck still held. No one was about. Quickly he scrambled back over the wall, landing softly on the grass.

"Be careful, Deveren Larath," came a deep, musical, feminine voice behind him.

Startled, Deveren whirled. He stood inches away from a beautiful young woman who smiled enigmatically at him. At once he knew who she must be; her clothing gave her identity away immediately. She was dressed head to toe in a figure-hugging gown of dark black. She carried a carved staff, which he knew to be made out of rosewood, and the jewels embedded in it glinted in the moon's light. Her head was bare, and her long hair was parted in the middle and fell in a cascade of white down her back.

White? Deveren thought for an instant. Bleached, clearly. She’s taking this resemblance to her goddess a bit far. For of course he knew the woman to be the Blesser of the goddess Death. All Blessers would have been invited; it would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette for Vandaris not to have extended an invitation. But most Blessers didn't take advantage of such social gatherings- and he'd never before heard of Death's Blesser ever appearing at such an event.

He opened his mouth to greet her politely, telling himself that it was her dark clothing that had enabled her to escape his notice, but she held up a commanding hand. The words died in his throat. "Be careful," she repeated, "on this night of nights. Sometimes mortals try to cheat Lady Death. I am the First who comes. Be prepared for the others."

Without another word, and completely ignoring his half-voiced query, the Blesser of Death turned her back on him and strode into the shadows, which reached to hide her as if she hadn't been there at all.

Deveren's throat was dry. His heart slammed against his chest and he found his hands were shaking. He leaned back against the wall. What had she seen? What did she know? Was she just trying to frighten him with her strange pronouncement? What was all that nonsense about "first" and "others?" One thing was for certain. He did need to be careful. Deveren couldn't believe he hadn't heard or seen her approach.

He calmed himself, took a deep, steadying breath, and composed his features. By the time he ran lightly up the steps to reenter the Councilman's Seat, he had an easy smile for the guards on duty. Deveren Larath had clearly gone for a stroll in the pleasant night air; nothing more.

He walked down the hall, keeping his movements loose and comfortable in case anyone was watching, and paused by the doors to the large hall. Within, he could hear the clear voice of the "Queen" railing against her enemy, hear the answering rumble of the Captain of the Guards as he protested his innocence. Halfway through the first act, then. Plenty of time.

Deveren's normal cocksurety began to return in some small measure. He'd been badly shaken, first by the dire combination of dogs and guard, and then later by the uncanny visitation of Death's earthly representative. Now he reminded himself that he had finished two of the three tasks that had been set to him, and the third-stealing a hairbrush! — was certain to be the easiest.

He ambled guilelessly through the halls, smiling at everyone he met, conducting himself as if he belonged. He was known and recognized, and encountered no difficulty.

He entered the wing that housed the private solars, and quietly began poking his head into room after room. At last he came to the one that must belong to Lorinda.

It was simple, almost austere, as befitted one who had lived most of her life in devotion to her deity. There was only a trunk, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a bed. The stone walls had been whitewashed, and though Deveren did not dare light a candle that might signify his presence, there was plenty of illumination pouring through the opened door and striking those clean, unadorned white walls.

No, not quite unadorned. A painting graced one of the walls. Directly beneath it was a small rush mat, a basin full of dried flowers, and an unlit candle. Curious, Deveren stepped forward and peered at the painting. It was small and crudely done, probably the work of Lorinda herself, but the image was unmistakable. It was Love, the naked little child, embracing her sacred beast, a fawn as young and innocent as herself. At once Deveren realized that the rush mat and its attendant items were the girl's private altar, and he stepped back hastily.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw still more flowers. Clearly, young Lorinda went to the Garden every day and festooned her austere quarters with the one decoration that most pleased her goddess. A smile touched Deveren's lips. This glimpse into her private room revealed a great deal about the girl-no, the woman, he mentally corrected himself. And he liked what he saw.

But time was passing, and the longer he dallied, the more likely it was that he would get caught. The thought snapped him out of his reverie, and at once Deveren's eye became critical, exploratory, us he began to seek out Lorinda's hairbrush.

He did not find it. Deveren frowned to himself. In a place this clean, this uncluttered, it ought to be a simple matter. He placed his back to the door and began analyzing the room, inch by inch. The bed. Its coverings were not tousled. The blankets lay neatly over the pallet, the single pillow hid nothing. He patted the bed down gently, careful not to disturb anything.

He examined the top of the little table. Bare, save for the empty basin and pitcher full of water. Where would a young woman keep her personal items? Kastara had always left hers lying about. She was rather bad about it, actually, and Deveren was always finding hairpins or combs or mirrors in the most unlikely places…

The trunk. He knelt beside it and opened it. It was not locked, to his surprise and pleasure. Inside were several winter furs, many of Lorinda's clothes, and a small, simple, wooden box. Beside the box, glittering in the dim light, was the girl's jewelry-a necklace, earrings, and some brooches.

Deveren frowned. Why would the jewels be out of the -

Deveren picked up the box and shook it gently. Something about the size and weight of a hairbrush clunked inside. Deveren's confusion turned to annoyance. Pedric, of course. To add just a bit more spice to the quest, it was clear that the younger thief must have taken the one box that Lorinda would have bothered to lock-her jewelry box-and put the brush inside. Naturally, it wouldn't have occurred to Pedric to worry about the baubles.

I'll have to think of something to do to Pedric in retaliation for this, Deveren thought darkly. In the meantime, he'd have to open the cursed thing. It wouldn't do to abscond with the box-too noticeable. He hadn't expected to have to use his tools, but he had thought it best to be prepared. Now he was grateful for his foresight.

Deveren squatted back, pulled out the little box, closed the trunk lid, and placed the box on the trunk. He found his lockpicking tools, leaned forward, and examined the jewelry box. It was a simple wooden box, not even decorated. The lock appeared to be equally straightforward. Deveren moved the box so the light shone full upon it, and positioned one slender metal tool inside, moving it about experimentally. Then he twisted.

Nothing.

Odd. The locking mechanism must be more complicated than he had first thought. Now Deveren took the second tool and inserted it into the lock as well. His concentration narrowed, and he focused his thoughts, reaching out with his hand magic skills to augment his slim, delicate fingers. Too much pressure and the lock would break; too little, it wouldn't open.

Scritch, scrape. Unaware that he did so, Deveren gnawed his lower lip. He extended his thoughts, making them an expansion of his fingers. Something was in there, blocking his tools. Grimly, he applied more pressure, increasing it until he was pressing down hard against the blockage.

In the back of his mind, far away from his intense focus, a warning bell sounded. There was something wrong with this, something very wrong indeed.

Be careful, Lord Larath…

Just as he pressed as hard as he could with his tools, Deveren realized what the wrongness was.

There was a loud snap and Deveren, gasping, threw himself backward, acting more on gut instinct than on logical thought. Something sprang at his face with the angry sound of a buzzing insect. He felt a sharp sting and clapped his hand to his cheek. At that same instant he heard a click and the box opened.

What in the Nightlands was going on here?

Cautiously, Deveren glanced into the box. There it was, the simple boar bristle hairbrush that had cost him so much effort. He picked the box up, absently sticking the brush in his pouch, and turned it to the moon's light.

It was a simple box, padded with linen, clearly designed to hold a modest girl's meager collection of jewels. But there was another, smaller box inside it, made of metal. This had been crudely fastened to the locking mechanism and had clearly never been part of the original design.

He was more confused than before. Pedric might have put the brush inside a locked box to provide his friend with more of a "challenge," but he had no skills that would enable him to set a trap like this. Neither did anyone else in Deveren's rather ragtag little group. For now that it was sprung, Deveren could see that it was clever, for all its simplicity. No, not merely clever-professional. Inside was the broken bit of his lockpick, wedged in firmly. There was also a small sliver of metal that clearly had been held in place by a tiny latch. When he'd sprung it, it had snapped forward, and a sliver of something white had shot out.

Deveren peered closer. It was a thin needle — or part of one. The same movement that had broken his lockpicking tool had also snapped this long sliver of what looked to be carved bone. Deveren remembered the small thing that had shot at his face, scratching it. Had he not broken the needle, it would have jabbed deeply into his fingers; had he not jerked back in time, it would have embedded itself in the soft flesh of his face.

Again, his hand went to his cheek, felt the already drying blood. Placing the box down, he turned and knelt, groping oh so carefully for the broken needle amid the rushes on the floor. He remembered where it had fallen and soon found it. Gingerly, he placed it in his palm and carried it to the open window for closer inspection.

It was a carved bone needle, all right. And there was something on it, something viscous and dark in the moon's silvery glow. Deveren brought it to his nose and sniffed. His eyes widened in horror.

Poison. Readily available from one of the translucent sea creatures that sometimes washed up on Braedon's shores, this poison was sent to the north, where soldiers augmented their weapons with it when fighting the Ghil. And it had scratched his cheek…

Deveren's legs gave way and he sat down hard. His heart pounded in fear. The poison would act quickly, within seconds. He swallowed, his mouth dry as sand, waiting for the pain to hit as he stared at the needle fragment.

It didn't come. After a long moment, Deveren realized he was probably the luckiest man in Braedon right now, perhaps in all of Byrn. He had been scratched with the broken end of the needle, not the poisoned end. He began to shake as the full meaning of this strange little trap sank in.

Only his thieves knew about the theft of the hairbrush. There was a traitor in his midst with murder on his mind.