King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

Damir's expression turned dark. "Why bother? It was probably one of them!"

  Deveren rose to the bait. "What makes you say that? Pedric was one of their number!"

  "Gods, Deveren, you speak as though the rabble had integrity. For the ransom they'd just as likely kill you!"

  Deveren froze. Sweat broke out on his forehead as a memory of the events of the night, forgotten in the urgency of finding and tending his friend, came back full force. He could find no words to answer his brother. One of "his" thieves had tried to murder him already tonight. One or more of them could have tried to do the same with Pedric.

  "Excuse me," came a feminine voice. It was soft, gentle, but the tone was of one used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Both brothers looked up and saw a tall woman with composed, attractive features. Her garb was simple, a plain, unadorned dress of vivid scarlet. Her head was swathed in a red wimple.

  "I am Vervain, come in service to my goddess." Without another word, Health's Blesser dropped down beside Pedric and began to examine him with a knowledgeable, gentle touch. "What happened here?" she asked crisply. She opened Pedric's eyes, gazed into them, placed her fingers on his throat to determine the rate of the pulse.

  "He was struck from behind by an unknown assailant," Deveren explained.

  Damir rose. "Think you can move him inside yourself, Deveren?" The younger man nodded brusquely. "Then I leave him to your care—and yours, Milady Blesser." He bowed, shot Deveren another quick, angry look, and went to join Vandaris.

  "The blood is dried," said Vervain. "When was he struck?"

  Deveren shook his head. "We don't know. An hour, perhaps longer."

  Efficiently but tenderly, the Blesser slipped one hand inside Pedric's doublet and shirt, pressing it, Deveren knew, over his heart. The other crept unhesitatingly behind the youth's head to cradle it directly on the injured area. Deveren sank back on his heels and watched. The Blesser closed her eyes and murmured something Deveren couldn't quite catch.

  Hand magic was something Deveren had lived with almost all of his life. Mind magic was nothing strange to him, either; not with an older brother as accomplished in the art as Damir. But he had, thank the gods, little opportunity to witness heart magic—women's magic—in action. This was the third of the Four Magics, the final one being spirit magic, worked only by the gods themselves or their designated avatars. And to Deveren, heart magic was closer to spirit magic than the workaday sorceries of hand and mind magic.

  Pedric moaned slightly under her ministrations, and his eyes opened. "Dev ..." he whispered. Deveren reached to seize Pedric's groping hand. "I'm here, Pedric."

  "Found . .. Lorinda?"

  "No," he said, wishing he could say otherwise, "but they're out looking for her. I'm certain they'll find her." It was a lie, but he couldn't bear to look at the agony in Pedric's face. It was too much like looking into a mirror seven years ago. He had to believe that Pedric would not lose his love to brutality as he, Deveren, had. Had to.

  "Got to ... find ..." Pedric struggled to sit upright, but the Healer held him fast with a strong grip. She placed a hand on his temple.

  "Rest," she commanded, and all the tension left Pedric's body. He collapsed limply into Vervain's arms. "He needs sleep. He will survive, but first, he must want to."

  Deveren glanced at her sharply. She answered him with a tranquil, knowing smile. How old was she? She looked young, but she had a wisdom and a grace about her that made her appear older.

  "I thank you, Lady Vervain. Pedric's a friend of mine. I wouldn't see him suffer if I could help it." "Then help me get him to a bed, sir...?"

  "Deveren, Lord Larath. But my friends call me Dev. I don't tend to stand much on ceremony," and he grimaced as he hefted Pedric as gently as he could, "especially when a friend's in pain." "In that case, Dev, you can help me clean his wounds." She was already rummaging through the large sack she carried as she followed Deveren, bearing his sad burden, into the Councilman's Seat.

  After conferring briefly with Vandaris and Jaranis, Damir excused himself. He mounted his horse and rode as swiftly as he could away from the crowd milling about the Councilman's Seat, away from the city of Braedon entirely. He followed the coastline, keeping the ocean on his left as he headed north, until he was a safe distance away.

  Damir's horse, an intelligent little mare from Deveren's stables, was laboring. He regretted having pushed her, but it was necessary. The sooner he got here, the sooner he could begin searching for Lorinda. He reached the spot, a rocky section on a beach deserted save for the beasts that belonged here, and tied the mare to the withered, slim trunk of a tree that had somehow managed to endure the winds that blew in off the ocean.

  Lorinda. Poor child. Pedric had not betrayed himself by word, look, or deed, but Damir had been in his mind tonight. He had tasted Lorinda's lips, had felt Pedric's love for the girl. And he had endured Pedric's fear of rejection when he was about to tell Lorinda that he was a thief. Slightly censorious, Damir thought that Pedric should have known better than to steal away so far from anyone else. Two young rich people, alone in a maze, were a tempting target for greedy thieves, and Pedric couldn't be sure that his "fellow" thieves would recognize him in time. But Pedric was young, and the blood in his veins sang sweet and hot, and Damir was not so old as to have forgotten what that song did to one's judgment.

  He scrambled over the rocks, nearly twisting his ankle. Normally when he came here, he was dressed for the excursion. Soft boots and hose were hardly appropriate for scrambling over rocks late at night.

  At last Damir reached the spot. Though it was summer, the breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he shivered. He hadn't even brought a cloak. He physically steadied himself on the rock as he mentally steadied himself to call on his finest spy.

  The song he had been taught was not for the ears or voice. Damir thought the notes, extended his presence, felt the song shudder through the stone, the sand, into the waters of the sea itself. And in his mind, he heard an answer.

  A distance away, a dolphin broke the surface, leaped into the air, and crashed back down into the water. When it next emerged, it no longer looked like a sleek fish-mammal, but a man, albeit such a man as never walked the surface of Verold.

  "This is not our night for meeting," said Darshirin, his voice soft and velvety, scarcely heard above the eternal lullaby of the ocean.

  'This is not a night for common talk," rejoined Damir.

  Darshirin's slanted eyes narrowed and he swam closer. Damir gingerly sat down on a rock.

  "Your heart is sore troubled, my friend. You have called; I answer. What may I do to ease your pain?"

  As always, Damir was touched by the sea-being's genuine concern. Many years ago, when Damir was but a lad, he had been on a fishing ship—one of his father's. The late Lord Larath had wanted both his sons to know from whence came their wealth; know and treat those who labored in their service with due respect. They had caught Darshirin, in his dolphin form, in their nets. The young Damir had insisted the creature be set free, even though it meant cutting and damaging the net. Later that night, while Damir was on deck, Darshirin sang a sea-song of gratitude, and was shocked that Damir could hear it. They had been friends ever since, and Darshirin had more than returned the original favor by providing Damir with vital information about the sailing habits of other countries.

  'There is a girl who has been stolen from her people," Damir told his friend. "I hope you do not see her, for if you do, it will be in the ocean depths. She is tall, fair as we of the land reckon beauty, and full of laughter." This last, he knew, would count the most in the eyes of one of the People of the Sea. These wise, gentle beings knew mirth far better than humans. He described Lorinda in detail, as well as what happened to her. "If you see her or hear tell of her, come to me."

  Darshirin's shape bobbed with the rhythm of the waves. When he spoke, his voice was sad. "Such violence among your own kind ... I can hardly conceive. No wonder you do not live long." Like the mysterious, elusi
ve elves, the People of the Sea seemed to humans to live forever. "I hope my search is fruitless, and you find your Lorinda safely among the land dwellers."

  "I do, too. Thank you, Darshirin."

  The being smiled, and disappeared beneath the glassy surface. From a distance he flicked his fluked tail in a farewell gesture, and Damir was alone.

  He did not return at once to his waiting and no doubt chilled mare. He sat staring, and wondering at the peaceful natures of those who dwelt beneath the surface of the sea, and at the dark, bloodthirsty character of those he called his own people. At last he sighed and rose to his feet.

  "Lorinda," he said to the sea and star-filled sky, "please come home safely."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The lamb shall bleat, and cast up its eyes, but you must harden your heart, for its blood shall buy you favor in the eyes of the gods.

  —instructions on ritual sacrifice, from Blessers to Tenders

  "Why in the Nightlands didn't you let me kill him, bitch?" grunted Freylis, shifting his burden as he spoke.

  Marrika turned cold eyes upon her lover. Wait, she told herself silently. You need him. Wait just a little longer. Then . . .

  "You do not understand vengeance," she said icily. They walked alone in the night, their path paralleling the winding road that would take them from the Square and the Garden into the heart of the city. She'd feel safer there, among the back streets and dark ways that they both knew so intimately. This road was open, exposed, and although she and Freylis had scouted out a parallel path the night before, it was too close to the main road for her liking. It would not do to be questioned or stopped, not even by their fellow thieves, not with the unconscious body of the girl lying limply in Freylis's ox-strong arms.

  They had wrapped her in a blanket, of course, and bound her hand and foot in case she awoke sooner than was convenient. A dirty rag shoved into her mouth made an effective gag. Still, Marrika's eyes flitted about nervously. This was what she had promised the Blesser, and that she could combine her own burning desire for vengeance with the sacrifice formed a pleasantly dark symmetry in her mind. But others would not see it so.

  "What do you mean, I don't understand vengeance?" spluttered Freylis, panting a little at the rapid pace. "I wanted to kill the little slug."

  "I don't want him dead," she snapped, her patience finally cracking. "I want him to suffer." A muscle in her face twitched. "He seemed fond of her. What we do with her will hurt him far more than a dagger in the gut. You have no subtlety about you, Freylis, none at all."

  Freylis growled menacingly. Time was when that tone would have frightened her, but that time was gone. Ahead and slightly below them, the city opened up, the street system becoming more convoluted. Marrika's heart lifted. Almost there—almost to safety. Not for her the open sky and road. She felt far more comfortable in close quarters, where she could get her back against a wall, or where she could hide in the overlooked corner or shadow.

  Khem, known as "Hound," would be waiting for them at the first intersection. The dim moonlight revealed nothing so far. She waved Freylis on, following the deserted road—deserted for how long, she wondered—and moved toward the rendezvous point.

  Now they saw a darker shadow in the shadows. Khem raised an arm and waved. "There he is," said Marrika. They were approaching safety now, albeit a safety that was unpleasant and arduous.

  Khem was small and wiry, but the little muscles that knotted his arms and legs were powerful. He had a scar from a recent knife fight that zigzagged across his already ugly face. He flashed Marrika a yellow grin.

  "Not sight nor sound of guards so far," he assured her.

  "Excellent," approved Marrika. "But let's not take any unnecessary risks."

  None too gently, Freylis put the limp body on the ground and went to help the sinewy Khem move aside the iron grate that opened up into Braedon's sewer system.

  Few cities could boast a sewage system as fine as that of Braedon, and fewer still had one a third as old. Two centuries ago it was discovered, as the result of a tragic cave-in, that the city of Braedon rested atop an extensive natural cave system. Beneath the city streets, the ocean reached its long fingers well into the land. After the cave-in, in which an enormous sinkhole opened up to swallow the first Council site, Braedon rebuilt with an eye toward using this natural gift.

  Over the long years, tunnels were dug, continuing the existing caves far back toward the mainland and eventually linking up with the several freshwater runoffs that poured off the encircling mountains. It was a good century and a half in the making, and building the sewer system had taken the lives of not a few men. The work had been hard and simple—convicts and prisoners of war, many of them Mharians, had inched their way through stony earth with plain picks. Cruel experience taught the architects that while the earth was solid, it did need some help now and then if it were not to cave in along the entire sewer route. Therefore, large beams, coated with pitch to resist water, were used to shore up the surface. Cobbled stones lined the bottom and crept well up the earthen sides to prevent erosion.

  After the first few disasters, the system had worked wonderfully. Every merchant and landowner was responsible, by order of the Council, to attend to the waste around his area. Several interconnecting tunnels led up to dozens of holes in the streets, carefully covered by heavy grates, into which the citizens of Braedon diligently dumped their refuse. Richer folk even had drains specifically built to carry off waste from garderobes and kitchens into the sewers.

  A feat of technical engineering perhaps it was, but as Marrika peered down into the depths, she thought only of the filth that awaited her and Freylis when they descended. Fortunately, it hadn't rained for several days. The sludgy waters that flowed sluggishly some twenty feet below the surface would at least be shallow.

  She wrinkled her nose as the stench wafted up. Grunting and heaving, Khem and Freylis managed to shove aside the grate. Moving quickly, Marrika opened the pouch at her waist and withdrew the leather-covered grappling hook. Freylis and Khem had been able to push the grate far enough aside to admit the passage of a human body, but the grate still covered much of the hole. Marrika snagged the hook securely onto the grate, tugging and twisting it a little to make sure it would hold. She sat down, her legs dangling into the hole. Gripping the rope, she lowered herself hand over hand down into the sewer.

  The smell grew worse, but she forced herself to endure it. She knew from experience that she would soon grow used to the stench. Marrika had traveled these dank, filthy, subterranean paths before, as had most of the thieves of Braedon. The tunnels made for wonderful ways of getting around guards and search parties, and more than a few corpses of those who had "disappeared" had found their way to these surroundings, to be washed out to sea and never heard from again.

  Her boots squelched ankle-deep in filth; the dirty water reached to the middle of her calves. It was pitch dark, save for the faint square over her head. That would shortly be remedied, for no sooner had Marrika landed safely than Khem lowered a bundle. Marrika grasped it and unwrapped it. Thick beeswax candles—donated from the temple of Vengeance—revealed themselves to her questing fingers. There was something else, too—a small box carefully wrapped in fabric. Marrika tucked the candles in her pouch to free her hands and, working by touch, opened the little box. Nestled inside, a small ember glowed steadily. She smiled to herself, then lit a single candle.

  She lifted the burning taper and moved it back and forth across her face, signaling that she was ready for Freylis to descend. She watched as the big man prepared himself, shifting the unconscious young woman over one shoulder and anchoring her with a meaty arm. With the other, he grasped the rope in his leather-gloved hand and slid down. Marrika steadied him as he hit, taking care that the girl didn't fall into the muck. Marrika didn't want her injured—not yet.

  There was a groaning, scraping sound as Khem, alone, slowly forced the unwieldy grate back into its place. Marrika didn't wait for the familiar cl
ang to indicate that he had succeeded. In silence, she moved forward, lighting a second candle to help them see better. Behind her, Freylis followed.

  They did not speak. From time to time, Marrika heard voices on the surface. At such moments, they would pause, shrinking back against the walls, shielding the lights as best they could. When the voices faded, they continued. Once, they heard the telltale jangle and clatter of armed guards hastening overhead. They spoke quickly, in low voices. Marrika strained to catch their words.

  "Vandaris . .. search everywhere .. . reward."

  Heat surged through Marrika, the heat of a triumph about to be tasted. By now Pedric must have revived, have told the sad, sad story of beauteous Lorinda's dreadful abduction. The pain was beginning. She glanced over at the still bundle in Freylis's arms.

  "Thank you, Lorinda. You've made this all possible."

  The tunnels became labyrinthine, but Marrika knew them well and pressed onward. By the smells and type of refuse they encountered, she could tell where she was. They passed between the redstained, fetid walls of the butchers, the multicolored walls of the weavers' shops, and perhaps worst of all, trod carefully through the acidic puddles of fermented bran, lime, and animal dung that marked the tanner's workshop.

  A soft moan came from behind Marrika. She whirled just in time to see the bundle borne by Freylis move. Marrika cursed softly. Lorinda was starting to awaken, and they were still far from the site.

  "Hold her," she snapped, then turned and quickened her pace. Filth splashed up and stained her breeches, but she paid it no heed. Lorinda was really beginning to struggle now, and Freylis snapped angrily at the frightened girl.

  The smell of the shops began to fade. Slightly more pleasant scents reached Marrika's nose — scented bathwater mixed with the ubiquitous odor of chamber pots, the last lingering bits of incense from a ritual. They were almost there.