King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  Bhakir spared her a sharp glance. "I would not advise trying to undercut your efforts in this curse," he replied. "My mercy will depend on how well I am satisfied with what you produce." "Then the gods save us all," she said softly. "Clear a space in the center of the floor. Place all the items inside it, and then set me down there."

  He did as she instructed, pushing the scattered straw to the sides of the room, then moving the strange items to the center. Even this little exertion was difficult for the obese man, and he was panting by the time he lumbered over to pick up Jemma. Fortunately, she was as light as a pile of twigs. Gently he set her down, then stood back. Sweat gleamed on his high forehead.

  'Take the bowl and place some hot coals from the brazier inside it, along with a little straw to keep the flame alive." He obeyed, handing her the warm container. Carefully she set it aside, then reached for the herbs and other items. One by one they went into the pestle. She lifted her head. He stood ready to jump to her next command, excited by the fact that victory was so close at hand.

  "Take the bone powder and make a circle, enclosing us both within."

  He laughed at that. "I will make the circle, Healer, but I will seal it from the outside." Her eyes narrowed. "What a coward you are, Bhakir."

  "Ah, but a victorious coward, thanks to your efforts on my behalf." This close, he had no desire to be angry with the woman. She was, after all, doing his bidding, and if she tossed a few barbed comments his way, what did it hurt him?

  "When Lady Death's spirit wolves come for you, I hope they tear your fat body to pieces." The hate in her voice gave him pause, but only for an instant. Holding the bag open with one hand, he spread the bone powder with the other, walking in a circle as Jemma worked to combine all her ingredients into a thick, greasy paste. He closed the circle, then sat on the bed, safely away, watching. Bhakir heard a skittering sound beneath him—the rats that so often found their way into the cells. Reconsidering his position, he drew both feet up onto the bed.

  Jemma muttered to herself as she prepared the ointment, moving her long, thin fingers in complex patterns over the bowl. Then, using the two fingers of her right hand, she scooped out a small amount. Still chanting softly, she rubbed the ointment into the skin behind her ears, along her throat, under her arms and, grimacing, in the bends of her broken knees and useless feet. For several long moments she sat, her eyes closed, breathing slowly.

  Bhakir became impatient. He was just about to speak when her eyes flew open. He gasped, instinctively drawing back.

  The eyes that looked out of Jemma's face were not hers. They were completely black, with no trace of pupil or iris or white left. And they were as cold and unfeeling as that of a snake, or a rat. Her body began to convulse, and gibberish spilled out of her mouth.

  Dear gods, Bhakir thought, she's poisoned herself. He watched, wondering what in the Nightlands he would do if this plan didn't work, when suddenly she seemed to recover herself.

  Quickly, precisely, Jemma —or the thing that had assumed her body, Bhakir didn't know which— began to lay out the rest of the items. She spread out the map of Byrn, anchoring it with the containers of milk, wheat, water, and meat at each of the four corners.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bhakir caught movement in a dark corner of the room. His nerves strained taut, he whipped his head around, fearful that some sort of Nightlands Demon had been conjured by the Healer and now waited to pounce. But it was only a rat, scuttling about on some rodent business. Bhakir closed his eyes in relief, aware that his pulse was racing. He again turned his attention to Jemma.

  "May the purity of water become as acid; may thirst in Byrn never be quenched; what was used to cleanse, now pollutes."

  As he watched, fascinated, Bhakir saw the clear water suddenly begin to cloud, as if Jemma had poured in ink from an unseen vessel. A shudder racked him. By the gods, it was happening! "May the wholesomeness of meat become as filth; may hunger in Byrn never be sated; what was used to nourish, now poisons."

  She impaled the knife to its hilt in the fresh meat. The meat began to rot before Bhakir's eyes. Its stench floated out of the circle and threatened to make him vomit.

  "May the goodness of the crops be as straw; may the fields be as barren as an old woman's womb; what was used to earn riches for the kingdom, now breaks its spirit."

  As had the water and the meat, the wheat began to spoil. It withered as if it had been suspended over hot coals, its berries blackened and useless. Bhakir could barely contain himself. "May the breasts of the women of Byrn become as old bones; may the children perish, may the milk of human kindness sour; what was used to nurture a people, now betrays."

  The jug of milk began to froth. Sour chunks floated to the surface as the milk spoiled from the power of Jemma's work. Now the old woman reached and gathered up the map, crumpling it in her hands.

  'The land is cursed. The people are cursed. Their own natures shall rise up against them; their own land shall betray them. When this map has been destroyed, so shall the land it stands for be destroyed."

  She moved to drop the crumpled parchment into the small, coal-filled bowl. Before she could do so, something small and black scuttled into the sacred circle, leaping gracefully over the lines of ground bone and landing squarely where it clearly wished to be—beside the putrid lump of rotting meat, upon which it began to feast.

  Jemma drew back, then lashed out at the intrusive creature. Her hand sent it sprawling, knocking over the milk and water and scattering the kernels of wheat. Undaunted, it hissed at her and continued to feed.

  Suddenly Jemma began to laugh —a robust, deep, rumbling sound that had no business issuing from the slender throat of an old woman. "So be it then!" she cried, and seized the rat. It squirmed and twisted in her grasp but she did not release it. Frantic, it bit her fingers; she ignored the bright blood that began to drip. Now the creature wanted nothing to do with the fouled meat and grains, but mercilessly Jemma crammed its writhing body into each item. "Be thou the vehicle!"

  Suddenly the rat froze, its four little limbs and tail sticking straight out as if galvanized. Almost scornfully, Jemma released it, and it fell heavily onto the crumpled map of Byrn.

  Bhakir watched, horrified. The curse had been interrupted by a foolish rat! His plans, his dreams ... all for nothing. Clearly the rite had driven the old woman mad. He half rose, an angry protest on his lips, when what happened next ripped all thought of protest from him.

  The rat began to grow.

  As if inflated, it grew larger, until it was nearly the size of a cat, a small dog. Its coat moved like waving grain in a windswept field, moved as if it was crawling with an unholy life of its own. The color of the fur deepened from dark, dirty gray to an inky black. Its eyes brightened, as if suddenly filled with a glorious good health. It ceased struggling and sat up on its back legs. Bhakir was reminded of the one glimpse he had ever gotten of the Ghil, the dreadful, almost humanly intelligent creatures that were the plague of the northern parts of Byrn, as the unnaturally sized rat looked about, its ears flicking, its gaze observing.

  Jemma gasped, then sagged, as if all the energy housed within her fragile frame had bled from her into the filthy beast. When she spoke, her voice was once again that of an old, tired woman. "It is done. You have your curse. May you reap nothing but ill from it."

  Bhakir stared, enthralled, his small, piggish gaze never leaving the rat, which now began to run the circumference of the circle. "But... the rat?"

  "It has taken the curse into itself, and will spread it to all those it comes into contact with," explained Jemma heavily. She reached up a hand to brush her gray hair out of her face, and that hand trembled as if palsied. "It will take good and turn it to evil. It will take what is wholesome and turn it to poison." She watched the evil creature skittering about, its nose twitching. It reached out one clawed paw and tapped at the ground bone, then jumped back as if stung. Cluttering angrily, it resumed its search for an exit.

  Jemma began
to rock back and forth, seemingly ignoring the agony that ripped through her broken lower body. "What was pleasure is pain: and bringing pain is pleasure." She closed her eyes and, incredibly, a smile spread across her face.

  "Jemma," said Bhakir sharply, his eyes flicking from the rat to her. There was no response. "Jemma!"

  She began to croon, and Bhakir recognized it as a child's lullaby. He could not rely on her further for aid.

  That was just as well. He had what he wanted. He rose, and walked over to the rat. It fixed him with its beady eyes for an instant, then returned to its ceaseless pace.

  Good. It was contained, for the moment, at least. Bhakir left, taking care that the guard locked the door securely behind him. He would need to acquire a special box to contain the rat; it wouldn't do for the curse that had cost him so much to escape. Jemma had used a sacred circle to contain the creature. Bhakir's mind was already working as he hastened up the stone staircase as fast as his enormous bulk would permit.

  Behind him, in the locked door, Jemma did not notice his departure. She sat and rocked, singing softly to herself. But part of her still clung to sanity, and knew that there was only one way to escape this dark path upon which she had set her feet. She spared a glance toward the door, but did not see the guard looking in on her. Good. She said a silent prayer to Health, the cheerful, benevolent goddess whom she had just betrayed, and thanked the deity for causing Bhakir to make his exit so quickly. He would be pleased with what she had done. He would want her to do it again; use her goddess-given gifts to hurt and destroy other innocents somewhere else. But in his haste, he had overlooked one important thing—within the confines of the sacred circle, he had left Jemma with access to a knife.

  Alone with the rat that bore the dark burden of a curse intended for an entire country, Jemma reached and gripped the dagger. Slowly, so as not to attract the beast's attention, she raised the dagger. She could do it; could kill the foul thing now, before it ever got to Byrn.

  But as she moved, it stopped its movements. It sat up on its hind legs and fixed her with a steady, red gaze. It knew. Dear gods, it knew.

  Crying out, she lunged for it, but the creature was quicker. Again she tried, and again it danced just out of reach. With her ruined legs, she would never be able to move fast enough to reach it, and it knew it. Safely out of reach, it seemed to taunt her.

  She could not undo the damage she had done, but she could prevent further grief. It would work. Even if the guard saw what she had done, neither he nor anyone else would be able to violate the circle to stop her as long as she still lived. Still humming insanely, she now positioned the knife just below her ribs, its sharp point aimed for her heart. It would be swift. Time enough, then, for her to fall forward and press the knife deep inside.

  Time enough for one old woman to die.

  Many miles away, separated by land and by water, Vervain bolted wide awake. The tears were wet on her face, and her heart beat a rapid tattoo not of terror, but of apprehension. "It has begun," whispered Vervain to the dark silence of her room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When the rat is big and the cat is small, then perhaps Puss won't come home.

  —Byrnian proverb

  "Surely it is not much to ask," said Captain Porbrough, more widely known as Captain Cutter. The most hated pirate of the oceans seemed very little like a threat now as he sat across from Bhakir. He was not a big man, barely over five feet, and much softer and rounder than his reputation would have one believe. But he had eyes hard as flint, and a grim set to his mouth that promised he would brook no disobedience. Few survived unharmed who dared oppose him. His voice was nasal and grated on the ear, but Bhakir paid attention as if the man's voice was sweet as music.

  He turned politely to his new head of the Mharian navy. "And what do you say, Commander?"

  Lord Carroc Zhael, as tall and lean as Cutter was squat and soft, pursed his thin lips. He leaned back in his chair. "Well, we'd have to do it very carefully, that's for damned sure," he said. "The safe harbors requested by Captain Porbrough—that's easy enough to manage. He's in the navy now, with ships under his command. Every harbor is theoretically open to you, sir, and your men in His Majesty's Navy."

  "But the men who haven't joined—what of them? They've served me well, and will continue to serve well, provided that you grant my requests."

  Those requests had been expected. The pirates that, till now, had been plaguing the coasts of both Byrn and Mhar had agreed to ally temporarily with Mhar in the attack that Bhakir had been months planning. In exchange, they wanted a few safe harbors in Mhar, and first pick of the plundered city of Braedon. The former Bhakir had been willing to grant, and Zhael seemed willing to agree as well. But the latter ... Bhakir took another sip of the fine Mharian wine as he watched the two men, so similar yet so different, interact.

  "We could arrange a mass clemency, if your men agree to serve the interests of the navy."

  Cutter spluttered indignantly. "They are pirates, sir, not members of His Majesty's . . ." Changing ideas in midsentence, Cutter turned toward Bhakir. "Speaking of His Majesty, when's the boy going to be brought into this? He didn't seem too eager to sup with us this evening."

  It was an understatement. The dinner with Castyll, Cutter, Zhael, and Bhakir had been little short of a disaster. Castyll endured the event with poorly contained contempt and hatred, often making subtle, biting comments that Bhakir was able to counter only with the quickest wit. The two men had been left seething by the time it was over and Castyll "retired to his quarters."

  "He won't be brought in at all," Bhakir replied sourly. "I'm afraid Shahil's ghost still lingers, gods rot his soul."

  Zhael frowned. "If he opposes us—"

  "He won't," Bhakir assured the commander smoothly. "I have him completely under my thumb, I promise you. When I cease to be able to manipulate the youth as I choose—well, then, accidents do happen, don't they."

  He raised his glass and, grinning, heard the two other men silently toasted Castyll's eventual — and no doubt tragic—demise. At that moment, one of the guards burst in. Bhakir frowned. "You were told not to disturb me," he said in a warning, rumbling voice.

  The guard bowed obsequiously low. "Your great pardon, my lord, but there is news I felt you would wish to hear." When Bhakir did not answer, the man continued hesitantly, "News from Byrn, my lord."

  At that, Bhakir rose. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said to his guests, "but a good cook sees to all his dishes, lest any of them spoil for want of attention."

  Zhael and Cutter chuckled appreciatively, and Cutter reached for the bottle. "You're excused, sir, but I suggest you return or else Zhael and I shall put an end to this delicious vintage you've provided."

  "There's more where that came from," Bhakir replied gaily, and hastened out as quickly as he could without seeming to be in too much of a hurry.

  In a small receiving room, one of Bhakir's finest spies paced back and forth, looking up anxiously as his lord entered. Bhakir waved the guard away, then greeted his servant.

  "Khem, I had not expected to see you back so soon. I hope the news you bring me is good, not ill."

  "Indeed it is, my lord," replied Khem, his small eyes gleaming. "I have found you a worthy group of allies."

  "Excellent! Don't tell me you've convinced a councilman to turn traitor?"

  Khem shook his head. Bhakir winced a little at the odor of the man. In his guise as a less savory member of Byrnian society, Khem was able to move unnoticed among the populace. It was clearly a fruitful venture, but unfortunate from a hygienic point of view.

  'There is a splinter group of thieves in Braedon, sir. Normally this wouldn't be of much use, but their leader has allied with a Blesser of Vengeance."

  Bhakir's eyebrow went up. The Blessers were powerful people indeed. "Go on." "This Blesser," and Khem shook his head again, this time reaching for words. "He's not a well man, if you know what I mean."

  "Sickly?"

  "No, h
e's... I think he's but a step or two away from madness. He takes great pleasure in hurting things, sir. A few nights ago, we murdered a councilman's daughter for the leader's revenge. That Blesser—well, 'twas almost as pleasant for him as lying with the girl, sir."

  "You weren't caught?"

  "No, sir. This group—the leader's very smart, sir. Very intelligent. I spoke with her about supporting your cause— in a very roundabout way, of course—and she's very interested."

  Bhakir could only gape. "Her? She?"

  Khem looked uncomfortable, but did not flinch from his lord's displeasure. "Aye, milord. The leader of the splinter group is a woman. She hides behind a rough brute of a fellow, but not for much longer. The Blesser of Vengeance holds her in high regard—calls her Vengeance's Chosen. She's spent many years in Mhar herself, as a thief, so she is not a blind patriot to her country. I think we could use her. She has great goals, and I believe she is destined for bigger things than simple thievery."

  Bhakir regarded Khem with a searching gaze. The man met his lord's eyes evenly. Khem was a good and trusted spy. He had proved his worth on more than one occasion, and Bhakir knew of no better judge of character. At length, the counselor sighed.

  "Then you may go ahead and reveal what we have discussed. Ally yourself with this—what is her name?"

  "Marrika."

  "Marrika." A thought struck him, and Bhakir smiled. "She is the Chosen of Vengeance, eh? Then I have a gift for the Chosen and her followers." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "A dark gift, for performing dark deeds. A gift that will bear the mark of the god himself. An appropriate gift for a group of thieves who would overthrow their betters. Khem, when you return to Byrn, you will take with you the first Mharian warrior to lay foot on Byrnian soil— my first soldier."