King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  Her body ached. She rubbed her stiff neck absently as she added soberly, "And such a struggle of the soul... the cure could even be fatal to some."

  They sat for a few moments, weighted down with the new, dreadful knowledge, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the slumbering child and the crackling of the fire. At last Vervain struggled to her feet. "We must finish burning the clothing. Then Allika must be bathed."

  At the sound of her name, the child roused, groped sleepily. "Where's Miss Lally?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

  "Here she is, honey," Deveren replied swiftly, reaching to pick up the rag doll from the floor where she had fallen during Allika's struggles.

  "No!" Vervain's voice was sharp.

  "But...?" Deveren was confused. Allika sat up, sensing trouble.

  "The doll is as contaminated as her clothing. Perhaps more so," replied Vervain. "I'm sorry, Allika. But..." she glanced helplessly over at Deveren. "We have to burn her."

  "B-burn her?" Allika's lower lip trembled. "But you can't! She's my baby! I have to take good care of her!"

  The tone in her voice was different. Vervain noticed it immediately. This was not the wild Allika, enjoying being spiteful. These were the words of a hurt child, crying out for the thing she loved. If Deveren was right, and she was a thief, familial love must not be easy for her to come by.

  But even as Vervain gazed at the doll, she saw a small insect crawling over its faded, painted face. She shuddered. It had to be destroyed.

  "Allika," she said gently as Deveren still clutched the doll, "Remember how sick you were just now?" The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. "Well, Miss Lally's sick, too. But I can't heal her. And unless we put her in the fire, she'll make you sick again."

  "But... Miss Lally's never gotten sick. Not even ..." Allika gasped. "I made her sick! I made her sick! I make everyone sick, and then they have to get burned, just like on the ship!" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  "Dear gods," said Vervain, her face going white. "She must have been on the Death Ship." What a dreadful thing that had been. She had fought to be permitted to go aboard, to try to Heal the sick, but had been denied.

  "But there were no survivors," said Deveren.

  'That we knew of," amended Vervain. "Allika, do you think you killed all those people? Made them sick?"

  The little girl nodded wretchedly. Vervain's heart went out to her. "Oh, honey, you had nothing to do with that. And Miss Lally didn't get sick because of you, either."

  "But... I saw them burn ..." She turned brimming eyes toward Vervain. "I don't want to make you or Fox sick."

  "You won't," Deveren replied swiftly. "We'll be just fine."

  "But . . ." Allika paused, wiped an arm across her streaming nose, and said softly, "Miss Lally makes me brave. She got me through that night when the, the black-soot men came, and when I found the rat.. ."

  Deveren picked up Allika, blankets and all, and sat down with her in his lap. "Allika, you've got it backwards. You made Miss Lally brave. And now you have to make her brave enough to go into the fire so that she won't make you sick again.You know she wouldn't want that."

  Allika's eyes searched Deveren's. Vervain watched them both closely. Neither spoke for a long time, but neither had to. She wondered if Deveren could see the aching need for love in the child's small face; wondered if he realized how his own softened and brightened when he was with the little girl. Somehow, sadly, she doubted it.

  At last, Allika spoke, with a voice as small as the littlest breeze. "Hold her up, please, Fox." Deveren did so, taking care that the girl did not come in direct contact with the soiled, ratty doll. Allika gulped.

  "Miss Lally," she said, "you're going to have to go into the fire."

  "But Allika," she said again, pitching her voice high, "I don't want to."

  "I don't either," sobbed the girl in her own voice, "but Fox says you're sick. And it's the only way we can both get better."

  "Oh," came the higher voice of Miss Lally. "Remember what I said to you that night? They can't hurt me!"

  "I love you, Miss Lally." The voice was a whisper. Allika buried her head in Deveren's chest, fighting back tears. "You can put her in the fire now, Fox. It's all right."

  Gently, Deveren leaned forward, keeping a firm grip on Allika as he tossed the rag doll into the flames. It caught at once, and Miss Lally seemed to writhe as she was blackened and consumed. Allika didn't watch. She clung to Deveren as if he were life itself, and the nobleman's arms went around her to hug her just as tightly.

  Vervain turned her eyes toward the burning toy, but in her mind's eye, she saw the Death Ship that Allika had escaped. She said a silent prayer to her goddess that she would be able to find a cure, and soon, else all of Braedon—perhaps all of Byrn—would only find purification through the leaping orange tongues of flame.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She may be no beauty, no goddess is she,

  And all of her charms can be had for a fee;

  But although her body can be bought and sold,

  She's surely a whore with a heart of pure gold.

  —Byrnian drinking song, The Whore with a Heart of Gold

  Castyll had no idea that the majority of the people he ruled smelled quite so bad. The odor of unwashed bodies vied with the reek of meat that had turned, the choking smoke of dozens of pipes and, most unpleasant of all to the young king's innocent nose, the cloying, almost overwhelming perfumes that the prostitutes used to disguise their lack of hygiene.

  Castyll had never been in better spirits.

  He had to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub of laughter, chatter, and off-key music that filled the "house."

  "I hardly picture you being at home among such company," he said to Damir.

  The other man smiled slightly. "I'm able to blend in where I must," he replied. "As are my men," he added with a smile. The men who had helped Castyll escape had accompanied them, and presently, with their lewd talk and loud laughter, the formerly silent killers were indistinguishable from the regulars.

  "Are all these women spies?" Castyll asked, looking from one painted face to another. Some of the women were in various stages of undress, as their clients examined what they'd be paying for, and Castyll felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. He hastily returned his attention to his friend.

  "Every last one, gods bless them. A few are professional spies and turned their, er, hands to this as readily as posing as lost nobility in a king's court. Others were working here before and proved to be easily bought."

  "Are they ... can you trust them? And what about the men who .. . their ..."

  "Their clients?" finished Damir, chuckling a little. "I think it's rather clear that they are not interested in espionage at the moment; and even if they were, they are too far away to hear our conversation. All the whores are loyal to me—and therefore to you. This is probably the safest place in Your Majesty's entire kingdom." He raised his frothing mug of beer in a salute.

  Grinning, Castyll lifted his own mug and took a sip of the bitter brew. Like the smells of the place, the taste of the beer was crude and unrefined. But oh, it was a taste of true freedom for the first time in what seemed like years.

  "Now tell me what has happened," Damir requested, settling back to listen.

  Castyll lowered his eyes for a moment, then began. He recounted Shahil's "accidental" death. The deaths and demotions of many who were loyal to the late king. The sudden disappearance of Jemma without warning. The traditional summer holiday in Ilantha that had become a prison term. His attempt at thwarting Bhakir with the speech a few days ago, and the lucky breeze that had so obligingly snatched the scripted speech from Castyll's slack grasp. Bhakir's sudden, seemingly unfounded confidence of recent days. Castyll's conviction that there were yet many who were loyal to him, who did not see in Bhakir the monster that lurked beneath the surface. And finally, his own deep suspicion that, if he did not escape now, he never would.

  Damir listened
without comment, nodding now and then. Finally, when Castyll had finished, he said, "I have come to offer you asylum. My men and I can spirit you away from here by the time Bhakir knows to begin looking for you. The king of Byrn has offered his support and his army to back it up. And," Damir leaned forward, a slight smile on his thin lips, "Cimarys eagerly awaits a chance to see you again."

  A lump rose in Castyll's throat. 'The letter I sent —she was not hurt by it?"

  "None of us believed you wrote it of your own free will. Cimarys has kept her faith in you."

  Suddenly Castyll reached across the table and grasped Damir's hand hard. "Thank the gods. Knowing that she still believes in me gives me the strength to do what I feel I must. Damir ... I thank you and your country for your offer of aid. But if I left, it would send the wrong message to my people. It would leave Bhakir utterly in power with no one to stand against him, no one to protect those who still follow me. You know how he twists things around with that cursed clever tongue of his. If I abandon my country now, he will have poisoned the people against me by the time I could return. No. I must remain here, and strike soon. He will not expect that."

  Damir allowed himself another of his small, cryptic smiles. "I suspected as much. That's why I told the Blesser what I did."

  "And that is?"

  "After she has been interrogated with someone who can read her thoughts —and you know and I know Bhakir will locate someone who can—she will be left alone. A few hours later, Adara will have a desire to visit her sister Blesser in Jarmair. She will travel to the capital and find herself at Castle Derlian. She will ask for either Maren or Kester, and, because of her position, her request for an audience will be granted. Once she verifies that she is speaking to Maren or Kester alone, her memory of her night with you will come back to her—and those whom you trust will finally know your true plight."

  Castyll suppressed a desire to whoop aloud with joy. Damir continued with the plan he had "outlined" to the unaware Adara, and Castyll's delight grew. When Damir had finished, Castyll could practically feel the weight of an earned crown sitting atop his brow. Damir wet his throat with the cheap ale and said something that took his drinking companion totally by surprise.

  "And in the meantime, we can work on your magic skills."

  Castyll blinked. If it were anyone other than Damir — Damir, who had just proved his friendship and worth a hundred times over—he would have thought the comment an insulting jibe. He replied stiffly, "I have no magical skills. The Derlian line of wizard-kings died with my father."

  Damir shook his head. "Oh, no, Your Majesty."

  "But... damn it, night after night I have sat and tried to light the cursed candle in my bedchamber. I failed the Test with the bracers as a child, and I've never exhibited any talent whatsoever." "Did it ever occur to you that you might be trying too hard?"

  Castyll did not reply, but apparently his uncomprehending stare was answer enough. Damir continued. "I've seen this before—not connected with magic, but with marksmanship, for instance, or other skills. Sometimes, one can try too hard, and the very pressure of the effort undercuts any hope of success." He leaned forward and spoke quietly, but very intently, so that Castyll could not possibly misunderstand.

  "You spoke of the breeze that so conveniently tore the speech out of your hands, when you wished not to have to deliver it."

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "I have seen many things in my life. I have grown to be highly suspicious of coincidences. I believe that you called that breeze. You were not thinking, 'if only a gust of wind, blowing at a certain speed and strength, would come right here and be of sufficient force to snatch away this speech.' You merely wanted to find an excuse to deliver your own message. And you made that excuse."

  The hair along Castyll's forearms began to prickle. "Damir, you are dangling my dearest hope in front of my eyes. I hope you're not toying with me."

  "I would not do such a thing."

  "No," Castyll said slowly. "No, you wouldn't. I ... I hardly dared to hope any more." "Dare, Your Majesty. Dare."

  The examiner sighed, removed his fingers from the young woman's temples, and told his master what he knew he did not wish to hear.

  "She's telling the truth, milord. When she woke up, he was gone. She really does have no idea where he might be."

  Bhakir smothered his anger. Cursed little royal brat. He should have killed the young pup when he had the chance. Accidents happened, after all.

  The two little Tenders, huddled close to one another, watched with round eyes. They, too, had been subjected to an examination; they, too, had been exonerated. Now they stared, silent, at their mistress and the big, black-bearded man who had come to see her.

  "You must be a very deep sleeper, Blesser," Bhakir said in a voice that sounded perfectly sincere to those who did not know him well. "Two of my guardsmen lie dead in your garden. Yet you did not waken."

  The skinny little Blesser shrank back still further. "I did not know. I shall pray for them and their families. Is Castyll—why would he do such a thing?" She seemed genuinely confused, and Bhakir reluctantly dismissed the idea that she was a collaborator. Women, other than Healers, had no magic. There was no way Adara could have "lied" to his mind-reader.

  "I fear that our good king may have been kidnapped," he said gravely. Adara's hands flew to her mouth in horror. "That was why I had guards stationed about your Holy House—though I know that it is against custom to do so. Byrn .. ." He sighed and shook his dark head helplessly. "They pose as our allies, but my dear young Blesser, I must tell you that they are no friends to Mhar. I have long feared that such a catastrophe would occur. But to think that even Byrnians would so blaspheme as to kidnap a king from a Holy House!"

  "If this is indeed what happened," murmured Adara, "then their souls are lost in truth. Your Grace, please—if you have word of Castyll, let me know. I would see him safe."

  "As would I, dear lady." He bowed as low as the huge bulk about his midsection would permit. "My men and I shall leave you in peace now. Thank you for cooperating with us."

  He led the way out into the bright, midmorning sunshine. With an effort, he heaved himself into his saddle, his mind working furiously. He slowly motioned for the two guards to ride at his side and the mind-reader to bring up the rear, and the four horses clopped down the cobblestone way toward the palace.

  To the guard on his left, Bhakir said softly, "Keep an eye on the girl. Follow me until we are well out of sight, then slip off the horse and double back."

  "Certainly, milord, but may I ask your suspicions? The girl knows nothing."

  "No, but Castyll may try to reach her —turn her to his cause. If he returns, I want someone there to capture him. It's doubtful, but right now I will not take any risk. Keep the Blesser in your sight at all times, understood?"

  "Aye, sir."

  To the guard on his right, Bhakir said, "Ride up ahead. I want every road sealed off, every ship that docks at the Ilantha port inspected."

  "Quietly, sir, or publicly?"

  "Very publicly. Put the word out that he's been kidnapped by Byrnians. Put a reward out for any sightings. If he shows his head anywhere, I want someone to report it. And if he disappears without a trace, well, we can turn that to our advantage as well. What bothers me most about this is, he had help." His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "What do our spies say about Damir Larath? I was suspicious of his coming so close to our borders in the first place."

  "He is still in Braedon, milord. He was apparently ill, but has recovered."

  "You're certain?"

  "He was spotted just a day ago at a public ceremony, milord."

  Bhakir swore. "I would have been willing to wager he was involved directly in this —it's just the sort of thing I'd expect from him. Too clean. But I suppose not. Indirectly, though . .." His voice trailed off. Castyll might already be well on his way to Byrn. Time, then, to take the hunt to Braedon, and watch for him there. And, mused the counselor to himself, if
the young king of Mhar were indeed in Braedon, then in a very few days, Bhakir's worries would be over.

  "My lord Bhakir!" The voice was youthful, strong, the voice of one used to being obeyed. Bhakir stiffened, then turned slowly in the saddle to see who had hailed him.

  Striding up boldly to him and his guards was the Blesser of Vengeance. "We have business, you and I." The face turned up to Bhakir was handsome, with thick black brows and a strong mouth. Anger snapped in the dark eyes.

  Bhakir looked around uneasily. Several people had paused to look at the unusual sight. Mentally, Bhakir cursed the man a thousand times, then smiled ingratiatingly. "Greetings, Blesser. And what business might that be?"

  The Blesser had reached him now. His arms were folded and he stared at the mounted counselor. 'The business of blasphemy."

  Bhakir felt a chill. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

  "My god has revealed to me that you are taking his name in vain. That you are doing something of which he does not approve. You may tread men beneath your heel, my lord, but you defy a god at your dreadful peril. Especially when that god is the mighty and implacable Vengeance."

  Bhakir looked concerned. "If I have offended, then I ask forgiveness and to be shown what it is that I have done wrong. Blesser, will you come to Seacliff tonight and pray with me?"