King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  Out of the corner of his eye, Castyll caught a movement. It was Damir, his hands pinned painfully behind him, a sharp sword at his throat, being propelled toward the center of the room with ungentle pricks from a spear. He stumbled forward, falling and unable to catch himself with his tied hands. The sword was never more than an inch away from his neck.

  How could this be happening? Damir was a powerful wizard. Castyll had seen his mind magic—

  — and then he realized. Bhakir also knew of Damir's skills. He would have warned his men not to trust their eyes until they had Damir secured. With his hands straining against the rope and a sword ready to pierce the soft flesh of his throat, the great Byrnian ambassador was effectively bound and gagged.

  Castyll knew what he had said to the Byrnians earlier, about dying with glory, fighting to restore his kingdom. That if there was no one here who was loyal to him, then he might as well be dead. But he had never truly believed failure to be possible. Of course Damir's message would get through; of course the men would be loyal to him.

  Bhakir. In the end, always, it was Bhakir. And now Damir would pay the dreadful price first. Damir, who had risked all to help a king of a foreign land. Damir, whose advice had been sound, who had been right all along. Damir, who foolishly believed that Castyll Derlian had magic.

  Bhakir watched the boy's face greedily. Then he nodded to the man who stood over Damir. The man lifted his sword.

  "No!"

  The word was ripped from Castyll's throat, a cry of utter despair and rage. At that moment, he seemed to hear a voice speaking from inside his head.

  I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.

  And all at once it was as if a veil had been lifted from Castyll's eyes. His blood sang and his body arched with the force of his emotions. He focused all his being on the silver blade of the sword as the guard lifted it to its height. There was a sharp crack and the guard toppled backward, screaming. The sword began to melt, turning first red, and then white hot, then losing its shape altogether as the molten steel flowed down over the man's hand and arm.

  Immediately afterward Castyll heard the whiz of dozens of crossbow bolts being unleashed. Power surging through him like a savage tide, he spun on his heels. His eyes narrowed with outrage. He saw the tiny bolts, and with a wave of his hand thought: fire. Instantaneously, every last bolt exploded into a small ball of flame, flaring and then burning to harmless cinders.

  More, thought Castyll. I want more.

  His completely unexpected use of magic had galvanized Bhakir's soldiers. The clang of steel now rang through the hall, and Castyll thought of the swords, the dozen or more swords now being used on Damir's brave noblemen who had pledged their lives to serve him.

  Sheath them!

  And each sword of the enemy suddenly writhed like a fish. They sprang loose, sheathing themselves in the wooden doors, in the stone walls, in the bodies of the men who wielded them.

  "An illusion!" Castyll heard the frantic cry dimly through the blood that thudded in his ears. With narrowed eyes, he turned his attention to Bhakir, who suddenly looked a great deal less sure of himself than he had a scant few seconds earlier.

  "No illusion," Castyll growled. "The Sword of Vengeance!"

  Castyll shoved his right hand forward, splaying the fingers hard. A ball of blue fire formed in his flat palm. It screamed past Bhakir, igniting his robes. The fat counselor cried out, futilely trying to extinguish the flames.

  No. Not enough. Not enough for what you've done.

  He stretched out both hands, clenched the fingers closed, and then yanked them back. Bhakir screamed, a high, falsetto shriek, as blood spurted from the sudden hole in his chest. There was a distance of some three yards between them.

  Grinning fiercely, Castyll squeezed Bhakir's heart to bloody pulp between his strong fingers. Now unseen hands reached and grabbed bits of the dying man. Flesh and blood flew as Castyll, delighting in the carnage, ripped Bhakir apart without even touching him.

  Take care. My Sword cuts both ways.

  The red haze of bloodlust lifted. Castyll suddenly felt bile rise in his throat. There was nothing remaining of Bhakir but a bloody pile of tiny lumps of flesh being ripped into still smaller pieces. He gasped, staggered forward a few steps, and fell to his knees. The terrible shredding ceased.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked away, glancing up wildly. Castyll calmed a little when he realized it was Damir. The older man helped the king to his feet, but said nothing. Castyll glanced about, still panting. The guards who had minutes before been ready to slaughter him stared back. Their leader had been destroyed. Their weapons had melted in their very hands. They waited, for orders from their new liege—or death.

  Castyll's throat hurt. Probably he'd been screaming his throat raw and not realizing it. He swallowed a few times, then spoke.

  "Before you were Bhakir's men, you were my father's men," he rasped. "I don't know what Bhakir used to turn you against the Derlian line. Money, or promises of power, or fear. It doesn't matter. The line has run true—I now know, and you bear witness that I have the magical skills of my father, and his father before him." He straightened, pulled away from the supporting arm of Damir. His words rang like bells through the suddenly silent hall.

  "I am Castyll Derlian, rightful king of Mhar. You are a body without a head, men without a leader. Serve your king, or await his punishment. Choose!"

  For a long moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, the guards dropped to their knees. A wave of movement crested along the galleries as the archers dropped their weapons and made obeisance. A smile touched the youth's mouth. Gods, he was weary; so weary. And terrified by what had lain, latent and silent, in the depths of his soul to be awakened by ... what? His own desperate need and desire? Castyll suspected more than that.

  I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.

  Something, someone, had granted the young king access to his magical talent. He shuddered at the thought of the strange voice. He would need to speak of this to Damir at some point. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his friend.

  "I had no idea of the power of such magic. I didn't mean .. ." No. He would not start out the first moments of his true reign with a lie. He turned to gaze speculatively at the tattered pile of bloody flesh that had been Bhakir. "No. I did mean to do that. And I do not regret it."

  "Your Majesty," came a voice. It belonged to a man whom Castyll did not know, but whom he had seen often in Bhakir's presence. The man had been one of the "scribes" standing near the false Maren. He looked frightened but resolute.

  "Speak," said Castyll.

  "Bhakir has already dispatched the Mharian navy, under Zhael's command, to Byrn. They will sail in partnership with Captain Porbrough's fleet."

  "The pirates," breathed Damir.

  "Aye, sir. For the moment, there is amnesty."

  "What are their orders?" barked Castyll, striding over to the thin, ascetic man. He towered over the scribe, who shrank back, then continued in a voice that shook.

  "B-Bhakir seemed to think that by the night of Braedon's Midsummer Festival, the city would be in chaos. Said he had made plans to ensure it. The fleet's instructions were to attack at Death's hour. He said—" and the man swallowed hard, "—none shall be spared."

  "Good gods!" cried Damir. "Castyll, they will take Braedon completely unprepared!"

  "We've got to stop them," said Castyll. He was feeling drained by the use of his newly discovered magic. He wanted nothing better than to lie down and sleep for a few hours, then rise and eat a hearty meal. But he did not have that luxury. His first act as king of Mhar must be to prevent his allies from slaughter by his own fleet—for Byrn's safety and Mhar's own. "There must be a few ships still left in the harbor that we can send in pursuit!"

  "And I," said Damir with grim satisfaction, "have a friend who may prove to be very helpful indeed."

  CHAPTER NI
NETEEN

  Summer is here, the breezes are sweet;

  And ripening fruits are ready to eat.

  Travel, ye serf, ye servant and thane

  To Braedon's Midsummer, where idiots reign.

  —Byrnian folk ballad

  At last it had come —Midsummer Festival. A time of joyful revelry, humor, and mirth. Some would be the richer for this favorite holiday, for sales were always good; and many more would end up poorer and perhaps wiser. The preparations had been many and varied. Apprentices had worked longer hours than usual, scurrying to and fro to obey their masters as procrastination took its bitter toll. The city itself never looked better than on the dawning of Midsummer Festival—although by the next day's dawn, one often wondered if there had been any point to all the hard work, as Braedon looked much worse immediately after the revelers had retired for the night than it ever looked before.

  During the day, with the sun smiling hotly in a cloudless sky, the booths and other makeshift buildings located between the stretches of farmland and the city proper had been crammed to overflowing. Merchants had come from all over the country, and even from Mhar, to sell exotic foods, wines, spices, and bolts of cloth, from warm wool to airy silks to heavy, ornate brocades. Other items, too, could be had if one had the coins—knives, leather shoes, jewels, whalebone carvings.

  Deveren had wandered through the crowd, after having left strict orders for "Damir" to stay home. Kyle would have to make an appearance tonight as part of the parade. That was quite enough for Deveren's nerves. At least after tonight, the "season" would be over, and Kyle wouldn't have to make quite so many public appearances. Damir had picked the worst possible time to disappear, and Deveren hoped desperately that all was well with his brother.

  Deveren had listened carefully to the various conversations that bubbled about him and had heard nothing of note. There had been no violence perpetrated save for the occasional, and expected, complaint of a "lost" pouch of coins. Now the day had had enough of Braedon's festival, and the sun sank quietly over the ocean to the west. But the lengthening shadows did not discourage the happy throngs that moved easily from fields to streets.

  Many of the merchants were still open, hawking their wares from smaller booths in the town. But now most of the activities would take place inside taverns. If the tavern keepers were wise, they'd have taken care to clean their dice and stock up their supplies of ales and wines. Tavern brawls over such things were bad for business.

  Business of another sort, too, was being conducted inside the taverns and on the streets. Dozens of women immodestly bared arms, ankles, and generous portions of bosom as they strolled about, a smile at the ready. Like rubies, brocades, or beer, they too could be bought if one had the coins.

  In other words, this Midsummer Festival looked to be shaping up like any other. One thing that Deveren definitely didn't like was the conspicuous absence of most of his thieves. Where were they? He'd been everywhere today and hadn't encountered anyone but Rabbit, who was innocuously engrossed in the harmless activity of selling his wares, and Pedric, arguing goodnaturedly over the price of a bolt of brocade. Allika would be with Vervain. But where was Freylis? Clia? Marrika? Khem, and all the others? Perhaps they were lying low during the day, resting; saving their energy for the night's activities. Perhaps. But Deveren suspected something worse.

  If there were an attempt to be made on his life, it would be tonight; and if there were any time for the curse borne by the rat's cadre of vermin to spread like wildfire, it would be in this crowd.

  The sun had set fully now. He shouldered his way through the crowd to get a good view of the Parade. It wasn't an easy task, for the Parade was one of the most popular events of the whole festival. For one day a year, the Council and any visiting dignitaries were at the "mercy" of the commoners. It was all highly symbolic and completely safe. The Councilmen would march in a procession, hands (not very securely) tied behind their backs as the people teased them (good-naturedly). A Byrnian commoner would be selected at random to be Master of Mischief who would "rule" over the Council for the duration of the (brief) ceremony.

  It was touted as a harmless outlet for any frustrations the people of Braedon might have with their leadership. And more than once, good-hearted Vandaris had heard something shouted as jest that he recognized as a real complaint, which he had later brought up at a council meeting. Guards were thick as flies in a slaughterhouse; should anything get out of hand, it would be stopped before it had really begun. Deveren could not recall any incident occurring at the Parade in the thirty-four years that he had lived in Braedon. Still, he mused; still...

  A roar went up. The Parade was beginning. Deveren craned his neck, trying to see over the crowd in the dim lighting provided by lamps and torches along the street.

  "Oh, no," he groaned softly.

  "Damir," the visiting ambassador, led the procession. Kyle skipped stupidly down the street, his hands tied behind his back. A parti-colored, garishly hued cap with more feathers than Deveren had ever seen on a real, living bird was perched atop his dark head, and the idiot grin he was wearing pleased the crowd no end. Behind him, wearing a face that had been painted on and did not entirely hide the tired, worn expression, was Vandaris. He still wore black, in mourning for his dead daughter.

  A slight tug on his hand caused Deveren to glance down. It was Allika. She grinned up at him. Was she here for the Parade, or did she have news from Vervain? Deveren had just opened his mouth to ask her when a gleeful roar of approval made him glance forward, just in time to see "Damir" execute a flip in the air, only to sprawl helplessly in a pile of horse dung. Friendly hands helped him up, but deliberately didn't bother cleaning him off. Deveren thought curses. Kyle was certainly going to give himself away if he wasn't more careful.

  But he softened his mental rebuke almost instantly. Kyle was having the first real fun he'd had in days. He was an actor performing before an adoring throng; finally in his own element. He didn't have to feign dignity, not in the Parade. He could relax and play a little. Who was Deveren to deny him that meager comfort? And certainly the real Damir wouldn't have pleased the crowd quite so much. Deveren smiled a little at the thought of his dignified brother with horse manure on his welltailored clothes.

  Another tug on his hand, more insistent. A second time Deveren bent to listen to the girl, and a second time the spontaneous roar from the crowd drowned out anything she might have needed to say. "Hail to the Master!" came a cry that was picked up and repeated. "Hail to the Master!"

  The crowd rippled, moved to let this year's Master of Mischief enter. Deveren couldn't quite see who it was, as the figure was on the short side and the traditional heavy fur robes—the contrast between the hot weather and the heavy robes was meant to point up the foolishness of the whole thing—turned his shape into a large, furry, brown lump.

  Then the Master of Mischief turned. He was smiling and waving the customary Rod of Ridicule gaily, but Deveren's heart turned to ice within his chest.

  It was Khem.

  The selection was random. Anybody who wasn't in a high position in the local or national government and who didn't own land was eligible to be chosen for the role of Master of Mischief. But Khem—a thief who had been spotted by Allika in the act of helping to bring a curse upon Braedon— here, now, in this position ... The hairs along Deveren's arms crawled and he rubbed them unconsciously. Like his brother, Deveren Larath had seen too much to believe in coincidence.

  "O-ho, what do we have here?" said Khem, peering at the bound diplomats. His scarred face crinkled into a smile.

  "Oh, Mischief Master, sir, we be humble folkses, we does," drawled "Damir." "Does that not be right, mates?" He craned his neck to look at the rest of the councilmen, grinning. They mumbled appropriate responses.

  "Humble folkses, eh?" mused Khem, drumming his fingers against his chin. "Hmmm. Here, catch!" And he threw his Rod of Ridicule at Damir.

  The blue-and-red painted staff caught Kyle's temple. The ac
tor gasped, then pretended to swoon.

  "This'll bring him around!" another man cried, pouring his beer in Kyle's face. "Damir" merely opened his mouth and swallowed the amber liquid. Another point scored; the crowd applauded. Deveren had to admit, the actor was handling his audience perfectly.

  "But is it not a crime to drink an' pass out in the streets?" queried a young woman that Deveren recognized as one of the barmaids at Jankiss's tavern. Her words brought a wave of laughter, for if they had been true, approximately two-thirds of Braedon's population would presently be in the stocks.

  "Why, so it is!" Khem exclaimed. He whirled and pointed directly at a surprised Captain Jaranis. "Place that miscreant in the stocks!"

  Jaranis seemed totally taken aback. Then he winced, as from some inner twinge of pain, and stepped over to Kyle. "In you go, you lawbreaker you!"

  Deveren suddenly found it hard to breathe. Not Telian ...

  He noticed a trace of worry on Damir's —Kyle's—face, and winked, hoping desperately the performer would see him. The last thing Deveren needed right now was for Kyle to panic, even though Deveren was beginning to think that there was a damn good reason for panic. The stocks bound a criminal's hands and feet. For a short time, it wouldn't hurt, but after a while it became agony. And there was something terribly frightening, at least to Deveren, about being so helpless.

  Allika's tug on his hand almost made Deveren stumble. He bent a third time. She stood on her toes, made a cup of her hands, and said into his ear, "Vervain says she's got enough tincture to distribute! What would you like me to do?"

  Deveren did not reply at once. He watched two of Jaranis's men untie Kyle's hands and lead him to the stocks, located on a raised dais in the middle of the street. He had just opened his mouth to answer the girl when a piece of rotting fruit sailed through the air and splattered in Kyle's face.