Lhind the Thief

by Sherwood Smith

  “He’s right about what I would have done to anything else, but he’s wrong about the book.” I shook my head. “That is, if you’d told me what that book really was, I wouldn’t have been tempted to steal it for myself. And that wasn’t a matter of trust. I would rather not meet the kind of people who would pay for such a thing.”

  I could hear the humor in his voice. “A practical attitude. As well as shrewd.”

  I had to laugh at myself for the sense of gratification I got from his words. “Is she beautiful, this Duchess Morith?”

  Again he walked in silence for a time, then finally said, “Not sure how to answer that. Everyone is beautiful. Except when they are angry or hateful. Anger and hate are not beautiful. Looking back, I realize she didn’t always hide either, but I was so bedazzled, I made excuses for her. Heh! What a fool I was!”

  “Is it foolish to trust someone’s words?”

  “It is foolish to trust flattery.”

  “But how does anyone know it’s flattery and not truth?” I exclaimed. “We all want to believe we’re smart, comely, and deserving of . . .” I sidestepped naming emotions I still felt ambivalent about. “I am very sure I would not have talked to Dhes-Andis as long as I did if he hadn’t almost said that he was my father. He certainly made it clear that he was family. He must have understood at once that I felt the lack, before I was aware that I felt it. So I can understand Morith of Thann using her wiles as the quickest way to get what she wants, though I hate her for it. Those feelings ought to be . . .” I thought of my cherished dreams of the Blue Lady. “Those feelings ought to be sacred.” I glared at Hlanan after I spoke, daring him to laugh at me for sentimentality.

  Hlanan walked, head bent, as a night bird cried faintly in the distance. “Love, or what one thinks is love, makes one vulnerable. Neither of us was the first to be so used, and won’t be the last. Is that a hill?”

  “Yes, and I smell . . .” I sniffed. “Horses!”

  Within a short time we were on horseback, riding toward Keshad. We didn’t slow until the stars glimmered and vanished ahead, the distant mountains emerging in the diffuse gray-blue of a summery dawn. When the first pearlescent rays of the new sun slanted down, picking out the roof tops and towers of Keshad, we set the horses loose. They frisked along the riverside toward home as Hlanan and I lay behind a hedgerow to snatch a quick rest before the morning traffic began.

  I woke abruptly at the plodding sound of horse hooves and the creak of wood. Wagon! As I struggled up, panicking, I remembered that the Gray Wolf courier was to set out in the morning, and couldn’t possibly be here yet. Sure enough, the first person on the road in the early light was a farmer.

  I turned my gaze away, and froze.

  Hlanan uttered a soft, happy laugh as, at the same time, we discovered the white aidlar sitting on a branch above us, ruby eyes glinting as Tir turned its head from side to side.

  “Tir?” Hlanan held out his arm.

  A squawk, a flutter of wings—the aidlar perched on his forearm, uttering little bird cries. I cracked open the pinhole in my mental shield, to be flooded with shrill mental cries, joyful and exhausted both: Lhind hear! Lhind hear!

  o0o

  Tir had undertaken a heroic search for us, flying for days.

  Since I had kept my mental “door” closed, Tir had navigated by listening for Hlanan. This disturbed me until I remembered that, just as there is a magical ‘signature’ there is also a mental one. Though Hlanan obviously didn’t keep his mental door shut all the time, Dhes-Andis didn’t know him, and so couldn’t find him in the realm of the mind.

  Tir made it clear that joining us meant it was time for activity, not for flying up somewhere to tuck head under wing and snooze. The aidlar had already rested, probably more than we had.

  Hlanan said slowly, “With Tir here, we can get twice as much done by separating, one to follow the couriers wherever they go, and the other to listen to rumors around the city. Count how many Gray Wolves are among the Liacz army. How the local people regard both.”

  I said, “I can spot and follow the couriers. I’m good at that.”

  Hlanan got to his feet and dusted himself off. “Yes, much better than I. Also, though I don’t plume myself on my memorable looks, I can’t count on who among Morith’s most loyal servants might recognize me at a glance, even in this locksmith garb. It’s important to be stealthy, silent, and unseen.”

  “Stealthy, silent, and unseen,” I repeated.

  “Especially by the duchess,” he added, glancing from me to Tir. “She is dangerous and vindictive.”

  “Unless she lurks in the kitchens, I don’t plan on ever seeing her,” I assured him. “Kitchens are always where the good gossip is.”

  He cast a relieved glance up at the slow-moving sheet of little puffy clouds that meant rain, then said, “Tir will know where we are if there’s trouble. Since Tir has joined us, I think I’ll walk into town and ask for work. At the same time, count how many Gray Wolves are in the streets. Maybe the locals, or even the Liacz foot soldiers, will be complaining about them. I can also get us some breakfast, if you’ve any more of your ill-gotten gains.”

  “Ill-gotten? I would call my stash nippily-gotten! This is the cash the Duchess paid that innkeeper for our capture, so she really does owe it to us,” I said, digging into the knapsack. “Here are some imperial silvers. I’ve heard everybody takes them, whereas I don’t know about lecca this far north.”

  “Good thinking,” Hlanan said, as I poured coins onto his palm.

  By now the morning traffic had increased steadily, most of it people heading in to market. Hlanan slipped in among them. Before he was out of sight beyond a hill full of wildflowers, I saw him in conversation with a wool merchant and an aproned girl carrying a basket, Tir flitting high overhead.

  Silent, stealthy, unseen, I reminded myself as the market traffic increased steadily. No magic. Remember to make a pinhole so Tir can find me.

  As the morning light strengthened, taking on the peculiar white glare preparatory to a storm, I shifted uncomfortably on the grass behind my shrub. My skin itched, especially my hair, confined as it was in the cap. Why had I ever thought disguises were fun? My eyelids burned with tiredness as the heat became oppressive.

  Midmorning, I was thinking about moving just so I wouldn’t fall asleep sitting up when a pair of tired, foam-flecked horses appeared on the road, the man and woman riding them looking hot and uncomfortable. Between the pair, they carried enough weapons for half an army.

  This had to be my courier and partner.

  I got up, drifted into the crowd, and began to follow them. I remembered to make a pinhole long enough to let Tir know I was moving, then shut the inner door. I was far too tired to listen mentally and walk without getting dizzy.

  As it happened, the journey was not long. Keshad was built along the curve of a ridge above a loop of the river. The royal castle took up a great portion of the riverside, built largely of limestone, which looked translucent in the glaring white light. Its roof was made of many-colored tiles.

  The royal garden behind the castle abutted a vast square flagged in geometric patterns, around which were built many grand houses of three and four stories, each with carved balconies with fanciful vines and leaves and on the eaves, gargoyles to scare away bad luck.

  The grays crossed the square to a singularly grand house. Surrounded by a high lime-washed stone fence topped by sharp ironwork spikes, this house was also made of limestone, with eight double chimney-stacks on the beautifully edged roof, two to each alabaster wall.

  As soon as I saw the great gate with its gatehouse above, I knew there’d be no sneaking past that. Not without a shimmer, and I couldn’t use my magic.

  So I slunk along the fence until I came to a portion overreached by leafy green branches of a chestnut tree. There were gardens to either side of the house, crowded with fragrant fruit trees, and sky-sweeping chestnuts to further block the unsightly windows of the neighboring mansions.<
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  By the time the couriers had passed inside the gate and dismounted at the stable, I had leaped up and ghosted over the wall. I light-footed through the garden and peered between sweet-berry vines in time to catch the couriers treading up stone stairs to the servants’ entrance.

  They vanished. I surveyed the kitchen court: water being hauled from the well, clucking and pecking chickens, a bored urchin about my size turned fresh fish on a spit over an open fire next to a bake house.

  Another urchin, a girl, came out with a basket and trod to the henhouse. They definitely hired youths, then.

  I pulled off my locksmith apron, leaving me in my dirty but otherwise unremarkable clothes not unlike what I saw in the kitchen helpers. I looked around, spotted the well, and walked out to grab a pail. I dipped it and carried it toward the kitchen, my heart pounding; everybody in a busy kitchen always needed more water than they had. I would carry that pail as long as I could, until someone noticed me. Maybe, with luck, someone would set me a task, and I could listen the more.

  But I’d no sooner made this plan as I lugged my sloshing pail inside than I overheard a pair of apprentices, both wearing the red caps of bakers, complaining in a side room as they worked over a flour-dusted prep table.

  “. . . who she thinks she is, ordering Vilik around like he’s a slavey? If she treats artisans like that, what will happen if she sees us?”

  “We’ll be put to mucking out the pigs, no doubt. What kind of a mage is she, anyway? You’d think anyone who knew real magic would be able to magic up her own food. What good is magic for, if you can’t do something that simple? ‘Fetch me a cold drink . . . fetch me hot bread . . .’”

  Mage?

  “Hush,” the first speaker said, lowering her voice. “If she said we wait on the mage, we wait on the mage.”

  “I hear you,” the second muttered. “Besides, with our luck, that witch’d turn us into doorknobs as soon as look at us. I’ve no doubt she knows how to do that.”

  Mage? Why did the duchess have a visiting mage? Because ‘she’ had to refer to the duchess. The two didn’t say the word with hatred, more like with the emphasis you give to someone whose words, interests, and moods are all-important.

  I cast a glance inside the kitchen, which was frantic with activity. There seemed to be two sets of actions going on: the preparation of enormous amounts of food, and stacks of plain, shallow dishes. That had to be for the guards. At the far end, a man wearing the tall yellow hat of a master cook directed the finishing touches to a meal, with beautiful porcelain dishes waiting on silver trays.

  Ahah!

  I lugged my pail in, scanning the workers. Red hats: bakery and pastry. Yellow: cooks. Between the busy workers darted youngsters in gray tunics and trousers, with gray tasseled caps. Pages!

  I dodged around busy people, and followed one of these pages until I spotted the linen chamber. Here were not only table clothes and napery, but aprons, hats . . . and gray tunics and caps. And, tucked under the shelf of aprons, several sets of servant slippers, all with quiet soles.

  I plucked up tunic, trousers, cap, and shoes, ducked behind a cupboard of serving dishes, and hastily shed my old outfit. Using my water, I washed myself off as best I could, getting rid of my carefully applied rotten onion and horse sweat. Then I donned the page’s livery, making sure to hide every vestige of my hair under the cap. I made sure the last of my horse hair (which I’d been shedding without noticing) hung down my back, covering my hairline over my neck.

  I folded my old clothes and stuffed them inside the waistband of the gray trousers, which were too large. And then I slipped out, lurking beside the silver trays as the last dishes were set on them.

  The master cook glanced at me, and made a shooing motion. “What are you waiting for? Take that up to the rose chamber before it gets cold! Do you want a flogging, boy?”

  I gulped, and then a large hand reached past me to pick up one of the trays. “Come on, stupid,” a tall, skinny boy said, his voice cracking. He frowned, looking at me a second time. “You new?”

  I ducked my head in what I hoped was an obedient nod as I picked up the second tray.

  “Well, come along, and don’t dawdle. She hates loiterers.” We sped up carpeted stairs to a beautiful hallway with climbing roses painted inside the archways, and beyond to a chamber overlooking the side garden.

  We set our trays on a buffet, me copying every movement made by my guide. I dared a glance at the occupants of the great wing-backed chairs at either side of the two tall windows. In one sat a woman of about fifty, her gray-streaked dark hair plainly dressed. I sensed magic somewhere about her, but she could have been wearing some kind of spell-laden charm. She wore a simple gown of such a deep purple it was nearly black.

  In the other chair sat a red-haired woman wearing paneled silk robes embroidered with cherry blossoms, her curling hair dressed with sticks of pure gold.

  “. . . the weather in the valley is quite breathless, Morith,” Purple Robe was saying. “If you insist upon a demonstration so we can get on with this, may I suggest we get it done? I find this climate insalubrious.”

  Morith?

  The red-head turned, and languidly snapped her fingers. “You, there. Open the windows.”

  She hadn’t looked at either of us, but it was clear from her manner that she expected to be obeyed. That one was Morith, I was sure.

  The skinny runner leaped to obey. The duchess said, still without looking, “We’ll serve ourselves. Shut the door after you, and do not disturb us until I ring.”

  Stealthy and silent I’d managed as promised. Now to get myself unseen. There was no chance they were going to talk business with us there . . . but outside those two open windows was the chestnut tree.

  I made it outside in the count of twenty. Three people had shouted orders at me on my way down. I’d nodded and bowed each time, and kept on running.

  When I reached the tree, I climbed as high as I dared.

  They were not speaking Allendi, but a language I knew by their clashing accents and their slow, considered speech was neither woman’s native tongue. Later I discovered it was Elras, that spoken in the empire of Charas al Kherval.

  “. . . take Geric Lendan off the list, then?” That was the mage.

  “Why not? As you see, I won.” The duchess had a high, sweet voice, but anger revealed itself in the quick sibilants. “And before that, he did absolve himself with that information about Sveran Djur wanting the Hrethan. It is always good to get an emperor on your side. Especially with so easy a capture.”

  “Lendan said the Hrethan knows magic.”

  “Eh, they all do, but they don’t use it to any discernible purpose,” Morith said dismissively. “Or they would hold power now.”

  “Perhaps,” the mage said, as silver clinked against porcelain. “Your local politics hold no interest for me. I promised you three lives bound as you will. Three only. And then the book is mine.”

  “As we agreed. But the demonstration lies outside of that,” Morith said with a quick laugh. “I wish to see for myself that you can do what you say you can. Only a fool would not insist on evidence. And once you have completed what I ask, the book is yours. What use have I for such things? I cannot begin to read it.”

  The book? She had it in her possession?

  I caught hold of the branch above, holding my breath lest I rustle the branches—or fall out of the tree. Shutting my eyes, I concentrated, made a pinhole, then sent the thought to Tir: Book! Tell Hlanan, she has the book.

  Thunder crackled in the distance, nearly smothering the mage’s calm, low voice. “. . . tell me whose blood to use, and we shall begin?”

  A gust of cold wind whooshed through my tree, causing me to grip my branch tighter as it undulated.

  In the room, the duchess said, “I intended to use Hlanan Vosaga’s. He is still first on the list. For your demonstration, let us use one of my prisoners. I will send—”

  Click. She had shut the windows.
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br />   Prisoner? Hlanan? List?

  The only possible answer to those questions was: I have to get that book.

  I looked around. The first spatters of rain hit the branches. A huge, cold drop splattered on my cheek. I slithered out of the tree, then dashed for the kitchen again. I’d gone inside two steps when someone smacked my head from the side, sending stars across my vision, and I fell to my hands and knees.

  My cap was my first thought, but I hadn’t been hit hard enough to knock it loose. As I got to my feet, a man snarled, “I told you to stack the cups!”

  I thought wildly, and waved my hand toward the stairs. “I was sent to polish . . .”

  My imagination failed me, but he was too impatient. “I don’t want to hear it. Now, get those dirty dishes from upstairs. You know what will happen if she sees them sitting around.”

  I bolted upstairs, delighted with the order. The first room I came to had obviously just been vacated. From the smell, by a crowd of sweaty people. Dirty dishes sat everywhere. A girl of about twelve, wearing gray like mine, was busy piling dishes onto a big wooden tray.

  She looked up, relieved when she saw me. “Oh, good. Master Dolaff said he’d take a stick to me if I didn’t get this room done at once. They’re having another meeting.”

  “Sure is busy today,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes as she picked up cups and I grabbed plates. “Are you one of the Thann pages?”

  “Sure am,” I lied.

  “Is she always like this?” the girl whispered, leaning toward me. There was no hint of admiration in her use of ‘she.’ “It was so nice, before she got here. The bossiest of ’em was Captain Parkal, but he was all right if you remembered everything and were quick.”