King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  Deveren's eyebrows shot up.

  "If you mean what you say about helping the thieves of your city gain a little self-respect, here's an excellent chance to begin. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but..." Damir sighed. "You know of the planned marriage between our Princess Cimarys and the young prince of Mhar, Castyll?"

  "Good gods, they've been betrothed since they were in their cradles!" snorted Deveren. "Well, yes. But judging from the letters that have passed between them over the last year or so, it's developing into a love match."

  "You read royal love letters?"

  Damir looked slightly embarrassed. "It's one of my duties, yes. Anyway, Castyll sent a terse note a few days ago, terminating the betrothal."

  Deveren shrugged. "Now that his father's dead, maybe he doesn't have to pretend he's fond of Cimarys anymore." He thought of the young Byrnian princess, barely fourteen but already graced with a womanly beauty. A smile tugged at his lips. "Send him a recent portrait of Cimmy. That should bring him to his senses."

  Damir sighed. "Dev, could you be serious for once? Since King Shahil's death two months ago, a lot has happened in Mhar. A lot," he added, "that does not bode well for future relationships with Byrn."

  Deveren was listening now. Mhar lay only a few leagues to the south, barely a day's travel by ship and only three days by horse. It was the nearest major city, closer even than the closest Byrnian city. War with Mhar would be a dangerous thing for Braedon.

  "Such as?" he prompted. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. Had he indeed been the Fox that he was named for, his ears would have been pricked forward.

  Pleased that he had gotten his brother's full attention, Damir launched into specifics. "First of all, they haven't had a coronation for young Castyll. He's fifteen, certainly of age to take the throne. Oh, they're calling him king, all right, but it's obvious that his power exists in name only. He and King Shahil went to Ilantha to stay at the traditional summer palace. Castyll ought to have returned to the capital city of Jarmair immediately upon the death of his father—but he's staying, finishing out the season, just as if nothing's wrong. That's hardly like the boy, from what I know of him. One of his father's counselors, a rather slimy fellow named Bhakir, is regent. It looks like he's the one in charge."

  "What about the other advisors?" queried Deveren. Like Byrn, in Mhar the king's rule was tempered by a circle of "advisors" who wielded certain powers of their own. Damir smiled without humor.

  "Such sad accidents," he said in a cool, polite tone that sent shivers up Deveren's spine. "Such dreadful illnesses. We've had trouble with Bhakir in the past, and now that he's in charge we expect more. This sudden end to an engagement that would bring the countries closer together would be suspicious at any time—and it's made even more so by the, uh, clearly genuine interest these two young people seem to have in each other."

  "But Mhar would benefit by an alliance with us," said Deveren, confused. "Why —" "Mhar would," Damir clarified, "but Bhakir wouldn't."

  Deveren nodded slowly. "So you've got a delayed coronation and a broken love match. What else?"

  "Bhakir's been making changes in the top ranks of the military, both land and sea," continued Damir. "It would seem that many hitherto trusted generals and admirals were traitors. How lucky that Bhakir discovered their fiendish plots." If irony were a real substance, Damir's would have burned holes through the beautiful table.

  Deveren whistled. "The bastard wants war, doesn't he?"

  "Looks like it. I've been able to get a few messages to and from the beleaguered young prince, though. He wants to set up secret negotiations between his core group of supporters and Byrn, as represented by me."

  "And you want me to see that Braedon would be a safe port," Deveren concluded. "Well, you have to admit, having you as the leader of the thieves just might ensure that there would be no criminal incidents, should we host the meetings here."

  Deveren nodded. "I don't think it'd be a problem."

  "Then your thieves will take kindly to being told 'don't touch'?" Damir teased.

  Now it was Deveren's turn to be deadly serious. "They'll take kindly to preventing war with Mhar. Sweet Lady Death, Damir, Braedon would be their first target. If they could get hold of our seaport. .." He didn't even need to finish the thought. He didn't really want to.

  "These talks could be of great import," Damir warned.

  "Obviously."

  "Prince Castyll himself might come."

  "Then he can stay at the King's Arms Inn," quipped Deveren, reaching for the wine goblet and lifting it to his lips.

  "He might want to pay ... an extended visit. A very extended visit."

  Deveren nearly choked on the ruby-red liquid.

  Pedric was having a dreadful night.

  Marrika had been stonily silent since she and Pedric had left the thieves' meeting. At first, the young man had respected her silence, but when it dragged on for a quarter of an hour he began to grow annoyed. He tried to take her arm, but she jerked it away. Annoyance blossomed into anger. He seized her arm, securely this time, propelled her over to a quiet alleyway, and demanded, "What in the Nightlands is wrong with you?"

  It was dark, but by the moonlight that filtered its way down past the buildings he could see the rage on her beautiful face. She didn't answer with words, but snarled angrily. Pedric was thoroughly startled when he felt a stinging slap on his cheek. Automatically, his soft aristocrat's hand went to rub the painful area.

  "You are such an idiot, Pedric Dunsan!"

  "I'm not idiot enough to go shouting our true names in public!" he hissed back.

  She sneered. "So it's Otter, huh? Well, for seven months I've been your woman, and I haven't seen you do a damned thing that a trained otter couldn't do. You humiliated me tonight!" She made a slack-jawed fool's face. "Uh, sometimes that comes in handy," she mimicked cruelly.

  Pedric felt his face growing hot, and not just from the angry slap. "I'm not a very good public speaker," he said.

  She laughed, a harsh, angry sound. "You're not very good at much, Pedric, except spending your papa's money."

  "I've earned my place in the group," he began in a low, controlled voice.

  "You bought your way in, rich boy, and everybody knows it. Good gods, even Deveren's made a haul or two worth something. You just show up with that worthless art stuff—"

  "—at any auction, that so-called worthless stuff would fetch—"

  "We're not an auction house, Pedric, or haven't you noticed? We're thieves! We steal, and we kill, and that's what we do, that's what we are." Suddenly she laughed. "Well, I suppose I've got no one but myself to blame. Somehow I thought you'd do something with yourself. You had the perfect chance tonight. Everyone likes you, though I don't know why. If you'd been able to speak like a real man, you'd have won easily."

  Pedric had gone beyond anger into open-mouthed shock. Marrika was a beautiful, sensuous woman. She had arrived in Braedon only a few months before, on a ship from Mhar. She'd been the first mate's woman then, but when the ship sailed back to its home port, Marrika had been in Pedric's bed, not on the vessel. Her hair was ebony, her skin tanned, and the movements of her body promised the ripeness of fruit newly plucked from the vine. She delivered on such a promise, and until this moment Pedric had assumed that he was the center of her universe. Despite her accusations, Pedric was far from being an idiot, and it was blindingly clear to him now that she did not desire him, had never desired him, and had attached herself to him only as the suckerfish to the shark. Had he won tonight, he wouldn't have been able to pry her off him. She would be all supple warmth and hot breath, sloe-eyed and eager for him. Now her fluid movements were stiff and frozen, and she was as cold as a breath of winter in the summertime, all the more chilling for its unexpectedness.

  He hadn't loved her. Pedric didn't think he could love anybody; he was too frivolous, and he knew it. Losing the election tonight had been an enormous relief. He hadn't wanted the position in the first place
, had only reluctantly volunteered because it seemed important to Marrika. No, he hadn't loved her, but he had liked and admired her. She was the first woman he had ever known who wasn't all aflutter with false courtesies and faintness. Marrika hadn't hidden her sharp intelligence nor her ambition from him, but had rather turned these attributes into ones to be admired. Now he realized that they were not virtues after all—not the way she used them.

  His expression changed again, from shock to mild disgust. "Lucky thing I lost, isn't it," he said archly. "Not only would I have had to deal with responsibilities I didn't want and, as an idiot, couldn't have handled, but I'd have had to sleep with you again tonight. What a narrow escape."

  He turned and walked back toward Ocean's View.

  Marrika realized with a jolt that it really didn't matter to Pedric if she stayed or left. Her mouth dropped. She'd left men before, left them begging for her to come back. Less often, they had been the one to leave first, trying to salvage some shreds of pride, but she could always sense their bitterness and pain—and reveled in it.

  Now that he knew there was no point in being around her anymore, Pedric had merely turned and walked away. The aristo bastard simply didn't care.

  Recovering herself, she rushed out after him, intending to continue the fight and then, this time, conclude it with her walking away from him. She nearly collided with Freylis. "Oh!" she gasped, startled.

  The big man grinned down at her. Marrika tried not to wrinkle her nose. Freylis obviously believed that in order to own the streets one had to smell like them.

  "Overheard your conversation," he said. "Otter is an idiot, letting a pretty little fishy like you get away from him."

  She gazed up at him, letting her lips smile sweetly. Behind the mask of her face her thoughts raced. Freylis was, if possible, a greater fool than Pedric. He also had his own group of followers. She knew that he was furious at his defeat tonight. If she was any judge of men, she guessed that he was in a mood for a bout of hot, primal copulation, followed by plans for revenge.

  Both actions suited her just fine. "Would you mind walking me home?" she asked. "It seems I'm without escort tonight."

  Freylis's ugly face split into an even uglier grin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Who is our King?_____ is our King! What can he do? Most anything! He'll call the birds and make them sing. And cause the bee to lose its sting, turn rocks into a wedding ring — A wizard most wondrous is our King!

  —Mharian children's rhyme

  The summer day was beautiful, the breeze soft and fragrant as it caressed the down-covered cheeks of Castyll Alhaidri Shahil Derlian, king of the country of Mhar. The young royal's expression, though, was better suited to the harshness of the winter months. His face was pale and as hard as the flagstone path that led from the aptly named Castle Seacliff to its surrounding garden.

  Behind Castyll, at a respectful distance, walked two men armed with swords. They were tall, though not as tall as the young giant of a king they guarded, and their faces were weatherworn and as hard as Castyll's. The two men were like dual shadows, and since his father's death Castyll had scarcely had a moment when they, or men like enough to them to be their doubles, were not with him. They were ostensibly his guards, posted out of concern by Counselor Bhakir, Castyll's regent.

  "Since your dear father's untimely demise," Bhakir had moaned when Shahil was barely cool, "I fear for your life, Your Majesty. You should be guarded, at least until the crown is securely upon your head. Sweet Health alone knows what I would do should anything happen to you while you were in my care."

  Like what happened to my father, when he was in your care? Castyll thought to himself bitterly. An accident, they called it; a bone stuck in the royal throat. But Castyll had been there when his father choked to death; had seen no bone in the soft pheasant meat upon which Shahil had dined. He had, though, been helpless witness to the dying convulsions of a great man, and had gotten a whiff of a bitter almond scent from Shahil's plate before it was whisked away.

  He knew at that moment, with Bhakir sobbing loudly and falsely, that his own life was in danger. He and Shahil had come for a pleasant few months together at the summer palace, but the small, pretty castle had become a place of mourning and fear.

  Castyll knew the men for what they were —guards indeed, but not for his protection. He was a prisoner here at Seacliff as surely as if Bhakir had clapped shackles on his arms and legs. His morning walk through the gardens and the occasional horseback ride—with his guards galloping at his side, of course—was all the freedom Bhakir would permit him.

  The king's head ached with the tension in his back and shoulders, a constant tautness that would not leave him even in sleep. He tried to force himself to relax, but could not. He was not yet comfortable with his adult-sized body and did not know all its subtle secrets. At fifteen, Castyll had grown nearly a foot in the last year alone and had already attained six feet. He would grow more, he knew; Shahil had been a big man, and there was every indication that Castyll would follow in his footsteps. He was thin still, though, thin as a racing dog, and his guards outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Besides, they were armed. Castyll had been taught a healthy respect for weapons and was not about to force a confrontation.

  He had come to the culinary herb section of the garden, one of his favorite spots. Seacliff's garden, a modest name for an area that encompassed several dozen acres, was an elaborate creation. It was precise and ordered, with each section clearly defined either by a low stone wall or carefully cut shrubbery. There were several sections—culinary herbs; medicinal and magical herbs; herbs grown solely for their dried fragrances; small flowers; climbing flowers; fruit trees; and flowering trees. Each of Verold's gods had his or her own small statue, and there were gorgeous topiaries, sundials, and stone benches scattered throughout.

  Castyll had had herbalism taught to him as part of his magical training —training for a gift that, he was certain, would never come. All the other Mharian kings who possessed the talent had shown it at their Testing, undertaken at age three. Castyll hadn't had the ability then, and had never manifested it since. Still, Shahil was nothing if not optimistic. He had ordered Jemma, current royal herbalist and former Blesser of the goddess Health, to instruct Castyll in the meanings of the herbs harvested at Seacliff.

  Now Castyll, bereft of both father and tutor, knelt alone in the garden and reached for a sprig of mint on which to chew. He hadn't seen Jemma since Shahil's death. He hoped the old woman had come to no harm; probably she, like everyone else with whom Castyll was close, had been ordered to keep her distance. Early on, in the chaos that had surrounded Shahil's death, Castyll had been able to send and receive messages from those loyal to him, even to and from Byrn. Now, though, he was surrounded by silence as stony as the walls that encased him.

  The cold freshness of the plant burst in his mouth, and a shade of a smile touched the youth's lips. Jemma had urged him to touch, sniff, and taste everything in the culinary herb garden as he listened to "the lore of the plants." Such experimentation had encouraged learning in a child more efficiently than the normal adult response—"don't touch." Oh, Jemma, he thought, if only things were as they had always been, and you were here, telling me that basil means love, and thyme means courage, and...

  He frowned slightly. Someone had been in the garden recently, and had damaged some of the herbs. He was about to raise his voice, call his guards' attention to the vandalism simply for something to do, when understanding broke in him with an almost physical shock.

  The herbs that had been broken, their leaves plucked off and piled in small heaps around their roots, had not been selected at random. Castyll knelt, reaching for the small leaves of the thyme, forcing himself to move casually although his heart was thudding frantically.

  Thyme —courage.

  King's Lady—the "royal" plant.

  Rosemary—remembrance.

  Sage—salvation.

  He read the message in his
head: Have courage, King, you are not forgotten and you will be saved.

  A lump welled in his throat. Jemma had not forsaken him! She was no longer in the honored position of Blesser, true, but she was still a wise and well-respected Healer. That she had the ear of many important people, Castyll knew. He blinked back quick tears and cleared the broken, bruised plants away. Turning his head slowly, the king glanced back at the two men. They were bored and talking casually to one another. Castyll puttering with the plants was something they saw every day.

  Castyll closed his eyes and said a prayer to the positive aspect of the fickle god/dess, Hope/Despair. He also silently thanked the bountiful goddess Health, under whose dominion all healing plants came. Then, with apparent randomness, he selected herbs to leave his own message. He hoped that Jemma would be able to decipher the complex message.

  He rose, brushing his dirtied hands against his fine linen shirt with the carelessness of his youth, and surveyed his handiwork. Obvious to a searcher; meaningless to one who was merely passing by. His task done, he decided to linger no longer and continued his stroll through the garden. But over the next half hour Castyll saw nothing of the beautifully landscaped trees and. shrubberies. His mind's eye was filled with the small, short, wonderful plants of the herb garden.

  At last a slight cough from one of the guards alerted him that it was time for the midday repast. Castyll glanced up at the castle and grimaced inwardly, but went with them obediently enough. Seacliff was perched almost precariously at the top of a winding road. It looked as if it might be vulnerable to a siege, but its builders had been wise, creating dozens of tunnels beneath Seacliff that led to secret exits. Most of them had fallen into disuse in these peaceful times. The castle itself was pretty, almost fragile in appearance from the ocean, built of white stone and adorned with many slender towers. It had been Shahil's and Castyll's favorite of the royal dwellings. Now Castyll wondered if he could ever look upon Seacliff without pain.