King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  "Good gods!" breathed Castyll. "Damir! What in the name of—"

  "Trying to assist you with what you were obviously planning," replied the Byrnian ambassador as he climbed swiftly in through the window. He bowed toward the startled Blesser. "My apologies, my lady."

  "Castyll... who ...?" Adara's voice was faint as she glanced from youth to man. "He is a friend." Castyll flashed Damir a relieved grin. "A very welcome friend, at the moment. But Damir. . . how did you know what I was thinking? Where I was?"

  "Your Majesty, when the king goes to become a man under the ministrations of the Blesser of Love, it's hardly a state secret. As for your state of mind—I've known you for some time now, and none of the recent behavior of your country's politics jibes with what I know of its king. But we must hurry. I have several men waiting in the garden area."

  Castyll stared, open-mouthed. "But. .. there must be guards everywhere!"

  Damir raised an eyebrow, and his thin lips curved into a slight smile. "I have several very good men," he amended. "We have not been noticed. Nor shall we be. My Lady Blesser," and again he turned to the young woman, "I'm sorry you had to get involved in all this."

  Adara stuck her chin up in a gesture Castyll was coming to recognize. "I know what is right." "It's my fault," said Castyll. "I should have tried to steal away without compromising her." "I'm willing to go," insisted Adara.

  "But you do not have to," said Damir. "Not if you trust me. I have mind magic," he added, seeing the confusion on her face. "I can make you forget what has happened—plant a false memory in its place. This way, when Bhakir brings someone in to mind-read you, you will have nothing to fear. You will be utterly innocent, and able to continue with your duties as Blesser."

  "Can you really do that, Damir?" asked Castyll, somewhat dubious.

  Damir nodded. "And more —if the lady will let me. She can help us, if she will, by following certain instructions not known to her that I will implant. But we must hurry. Every minute we linger increases the risk. Are you willing, lady?" Adara gnawed her lower lip, glancing from one to the other. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "Excellent," said Damir. "Now, come, sit down on the bed, and close your eyes."

  She did as she was bid. Damir seated himself next to her and placed the fingers of his right hand against her temple. His expression was composed, almost blank, but as Castyll watched, various emotions flitted about Damir's angular face. At one point, the older man's lips curved into a happy smile. Knowing that Damir was reading the Blesser's thoughts—and guessing at what the Blesser was recalling—Castyll blushed.

  "Now," said Damir softly to Adara, "let us go back. Castyll never spoke to you of his plans. You talked for a bit, then completed the holy ritual. Then you slept in the king's arms. You will awake refreshed when the morning comes, and you will be as startled as anyone else that he has gone. Do you understand?"

  Beneath her closed lids, Adara's eyes flickered back and forth. "Yes," she said softly. "Now, Castyll," said Damir, his eyes still closed, "do you yet have men loyal to you?"

  "Yes," replied the king swiftly. "I hope most of them. Bhakir has been careful to keep my imprisonment a secret. I think most of the guards back at Castle Derlian in Jarmair are loyal to me." "That is hope speaking," reprimanded Damir. 'Tell me who you know to be loyal to you unto death."

  Castyll licked his lips thinking hard. Unto death ... "My seneschal. Lord Maren." "And who reports to him that you trust?"

  "The Captain of the Guards—Kester."

  Damir nodded and leaned over toward Adara again, whispering softly into her ear. Castyll couldn't quite catch the words this time, but it did not matter. Beyond all hope, Damir had come to help him escape.

  Damir finished, and gently eased the girl back into her bed. "Help me remove her clothing," he said. When Castyll hesitated, overcome with a bout of shyness, the older man said sternly, "If we want this to work, she can't be found fully dressed in a traveling cloak, now can she?"

  Castyll wordlessly conceded the logic of that, and together they removed Adara's clothes. The young king brought the blanket up to her chin, kissed the girl's forehead, and whispered softly, "I will remember." He straightened, and this time the redness on his face was from excitement, not embarrassment. "Let's go."

  They extinguished the lamps and Damir went first. He looked around, then quietly eased himself out the window into the flower beds beneath. He helped Castyll out, wincing as Castyll loudly banged a knee against the wooden sill. At Damir's gesture, Castyll froze.

  No sound. They had not been spotted. As his eyes adjusted to the dim night lighting, Castyll was able to see Bhakir's guards. Two were out here, one of whom was clearly asleep at his post. The other was facing away from the house. Castyll suspected there were more in the front of the building. Anger flared in him again, but he pushed it aside.

  His eyes attuned to the night now, he found he could also make out three of Damir's men. One sat comfortably in a large tree, a bow with a nocked arrow at the ready in case they were discovered. Other than his dark clothes and the soot smeared on his face, the man made little effort to hide himself. Another black-clad man waited by the stone wall. There were no weapons visible, but Castyll suspected the man was well armed indeed. A third man waited with—of all things—horses at the ready.

  Castyll frowned in annoyance. "Your men may be good, but they do a damned poor job of hiding themselves," he whispered to Damir.

  Damir shot him a look that Castyll couldn't readily decipher. He opened his mouth, was about to say something when a sudden yowl split the night.

  It was Timmar, the temple's cat, and all she was doing was performing her duty of keeping the rats at bay. But one of the vermin had clearly managed to get in a good bite before Timmar's sharp claws ended its life, and Timmar was not a creature to suffer in silence.

  The drowsing guard started awake while the one on patrol whirled. Castyll's heart climbed into his throat. Timmar and her dead rat were but a yard to his left. The man was staring right at him and Damir!

  Panic seized the young man. He began to run toward the waiting horses. Damir grunted softly and reached out to grasp him. "No!" hissed the older man, but it was too late.

  The guard began to run in their direction. Suddenly he stumbled and pitched forward. A slender black arrow protruded from his back. The guard who had been sleeping was now on his feet, looking around drowsily. He opened his mouth, perhaps to cry out a warning to his fellow guardsmen, and again an arrow sang through the air. The second of Bhakir's guards toppled, the arrow, fired by Damir's man in the tree, piercing his throat.

  By now Damir had seized Castyll, twisted the young king's arm around in a painful grip and covered his mouth with one hand. "Silence!" hissed Damir, his lips brushing Castyll's ear. "I had worked mind magic on Bhakir's guards. We were all invisible to their eyes. They would not have seen us had you not bolted. Be silent, and all may yet be well."

  Castyll nodded to indicate that he understood. Damir released him. They stood still as statues, Castyll trying to make even his breathing as quiet as he could, waiting for the sound of the other guards to come rushing back, demanding what was wrong.

  But they did not come. The murders of the two men had been done in silence. The yowl of a temple cat was nothing unusual; and the remaining guards had been too far away to hear Castyll's frightened footfalls.

  Castyll felt the panicky tension ebb away, and he sagged in Damir's grip. He had never witnessed murder before, and it horrified him. No matter that it had been done to save his life; no matter that the men now dead were in the pay of the hated Bhakir. No matter. Two men who had once been alive were now stiffening on the grass outside of Love's temple, and Castyll could not help but be repulsed.

  Damir's grip was strong and comforting. "I know. The first time you see it..." his voice trailed off and he did not complete the thought. "Come. We cannot hope to hide the fact that you had help escaping, not now, but we can make good that escape."

  Moving
as silently as they could, Damir and Castyll hastened toward the waiting horses—and freedom.

  Six days.

  Six frustrating, lie-filled, anxious, and above all long, days. Days in which Deveren was certain that someone would send a Healer to attend the ill Damir. Days in which he dreaded that he would suddenly run out of falsehoods. Days in which he just knew, as certainly as the sun rose in the east, that he had said something untoward that would alert some stealthy spy that Damir was not home in bed suffering from a bad case of the sneezes, but was on Mharian soil and off to rescue the young king.

  Six very difficult days.

  The only bright spot in this dreadful time was the simple note that had been left with one of the servants: The cats have caught the rat, and sent it to the gods. The strange, huge, dangerous creature that had lurked in Braedon's sewers had been captured, killed, and burned by some of this thieves; he did not yet know who. That was a huge relief, though not as huge a relief as Damir's safe return would be.

  Deveren had been obliged to attend the final performance of The Queen of All, though public appearances generally led to unwanted questions about his "poor sick brother." But Deveren could not refuse to show up; that would draw even more unwanted attention. Although the night was beautiful—clear and balmy, with a thousand stars glittering in the indigo sky—and the play was fine, Deveren Larath hunched in his seat at the amphitheater and watched the show with no enjoyment whatsoever.

  Pedric was not in attendance. Deveren hadn't seen him since that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. It was unlike the young man not to attend a closing performance, but Deveren couldn't blame him. This was the show he had seen with his beloved on the night she was slain. Pedric probably couldn't bear watching it now. Still, Deveren worried about the youth.

  A soft sob next to him brought his attention back to the stage. Ah, yes, this was the scene that always brought tears to the eye. The dreadful Elf-King, played so skillfully by Kyle Kierdan, was using his unnatural charms to trick the Queen of the title. Despite the fact that he had watched this play and this scene at least a dozen times during rehearsals and performances, Deveren found himself leaning forward, engrossed.

  Kierdan was tall and slim; too tall for a real elf-king, if the legends were to be believed. But he moved with an uncanny grace, and his voice was smooth as honey. The poor Queen would have had to be more than mortal to resist such charms. And before she realized it, she had voiced her darkest desires—to murder, with her own hands, her enemy's children.

  A sudden flash! Deveren blinked, and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the Elf-King had two children with him. They wore hoods and cloaks, and the Queen rushed at them with a dagger, brutally killing the young things.

  Deveren felt a chill. Playacting, yes; the blood was fake and the children would take their pleased bows at the curtain call. But it was hard to watch, nonetheless. Harder yet when the Elf-King crowed gleefully that the Queen had murdered her own children, taking evil delight in yanking off the hoods of the dead little boy and girl.

  Deveren heard sobs throughout the audience, and smiled. What a show. That Kyle Kierdan —he was magnificent. Deveren watched the rest of the play, and stood along with the rest of the audience to applaud the hardworking actors. Kierdan received the loudest applause. And as always, to distance himself from the role of such an evil being, he removed the fair-haired wig and pointed imitation ears before he bowed.

  Deveren smothered a grin. Poor Kyle. He was sensitive about that thinning hair of his, almost as sensitive as Damir was about his.

  His grin faded as the thought registered. Suddenly Deveren was very glad indeed that he had chosen to come tonight.

  An hour later, after Kyle Kierdan had been plied with drink and fine food at one of the better establishments in town, Deveren took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and stated the reason for the meeting.

  "I want to buy out your contract with the troupe."

  Kyle choked on the mouthful of roasted salmon with wine sauce. Deveren glanced around quickly, hoping the actor's coughing would not attract undue attention. Kyle recovered himself, wiped at his streaming eyes, and took a drink of wine. His face was angry but composed.

  "May I ask why? I daresay that my performance as the Elf-King has made your purse the heavier, Lord Larath. There have been no complaints about my conduct off the stage, and—" "It is precisely your skill as an actor that I need," Deveren interjected. "Keep your voice down, please."

  Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Your pardon, my lord, but I don't understand."

  "Let me try this again. I want to terminate your contract with the troupe because I wish to hire you for another performance."

  Kyle cheered up considerably and dove into the braised greens with renewed gusto. "Well, that's quite different then, your lordship."

  Deveren regarded him intently. He had the same basic build as Damir; the same receding hairline; even the same color eyes. The face was not quite right, but the right actor could do wonders with makeup. If he was kept at a distance . ..

  "It's a very unusual assignment. You won't be able to discuss it with anyone, either during the, er, performance or at any time afterward. And after you are finished, I must ask you to leave Braedon for a few months." He leaned over the oak table, looked Kyle in the eye. "I will make it worth your while."

  Kyle leaned forward, until their noses were only inches apart. "How much worth my while?" "I'll match every copper you earned for the entire run of The Queen of All and give you a bonus if you do the job right."

  The actor's thin eyebrows shot up, but otherwise, he did not react. "How long a run?" 'Three, four days. Perhaps a week."

  "Good gods, Lord Larath ... what kind of a job is this?"

  "Finish your meal. I don't want to attract attention." As Kyle returned to his salmon, Deveren glanced about surreptitiously. No one was paying them any heed. "It's just a lark, really—a joke. You know my good brother, Lord Damir Larath?"

  "I've met him, yes. What about him?"

  "He's going to be gone for a few days. He's been ill; thinks getting out of the city for a while will help him recover. We were talking last night; he was saying how much the good people of Braedon will miss him." Deveren was well into his own role now, completely at ease spinning the falsehood. "I of course replied that he could fall into the ocean and not be missed. We had a slight wager on it."

  "Can't have been too slight," murmured Kyle.

  "All right —not slight at all. It's one of those silly things brothers do." Deveren smiled his most disarming grin. Kyle smiled back and poured himself another goblet of wine. Clearly, he suspected nothing. "At any rate, I'd like for you to impersonate him while he's away. That way, if no one thinks he's gone, no one can miss him. And I win my wager."

  "Your pardon, sir, but... I haven't really had a chance to study the man. And I don't think I resemble him that much."

  "Kyle, I've seen how you can transform yourself into any character you want. And you look enough like him that I think we can manage it. Come, man, have you no sense of adventure?" "Well... your brother won't be angry with me?"

  "Oh, he'll be hopping mad, all right, but with me, not with you. Damir generally knows who's to blame for what."

  "It is tempting.... Oh, very well."

  "Wonderful! Do you know where I live, Kyle?"

  "Aye, milord."

  'Then order yourself a sweetcake to end your meal and tonight, after Death's hour has tolled, come to my house. Take care that no one sees you. I have my brother's clothes and other things that—"

  "Come back here, you little rat!" The innkeeper's voice was loud and thunderous with anger. Deveren turned to see what all the commotion was about. Even as the innkeeper continued to yell, a shrill, high voice rose in wordless counterpoint. Deveren was just in time to see the flash of a black dress, bare feet and, for just the briefest instant, the faded face of an old rag doll.

  He scattered a handful of coins on the table as he rose, saying hasti
ly to Kyle, "This should pay for the meal. Keep the rest." Before the startled actor could reply, Deveren was threading his way through the clutter of tables and benches, trying to reach the child before the angry innkeeper did.

  He was too late. Allika had not been swift enough and the heavyset man had her by the arm. She squalled and twisted, her face red as a pomegranate with fury. The innkeeper's heavy hand crashed down on her small face.

  "Damned little vermin-ridden thief," the man grunted, his eyes bright and his own face flushed with excitement. "I'll teach you to steal from my kitchen, gods help me I will!"

  Deveren lunged forward and seized the man's meaty arm, preventing a second blow from landing on Allika's already swollen cheek. Growling, the man turned to Deveren, his teeth clenched in raw fury. The anger faded as he recognized Lord Larath. Allika, though, continued to scream.

  "What in the Nightlands is going on?" yelped Deveren.

  "This—brat—was stealing from my kitchen. Gone and eaten nearly half a chicken pasty by the time I'd caught her!"

  Allika paused long enough to fill her lungs with air, then continued shrieking. Deveren was confounded by her behavior. If she'd wanted to steal, she'd have done so and not gotten caught. And he'd never seen her carrying on like this, wailing and screaming ...

  "Here," he said to the innkeeper. "Let me recompense you for your trouble and take the child away."

  The innkeeper's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you know this brat, Lord Larath?" He had to speak loudly to be heard over the din of the screeching little girl.

  "No," lied Deveren, "but if she stole your food and not your money, I'm sure she's just hungry. I will take care of it," he emphasized, dropping a heavy silver coin into the man's beefy palm. The innkeeper's expression turned from suspicion to greedy pleasure.