Deveren tensed. That had never happened before.
There was a stunned silence, then someone guffawed. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd, and as more fruit and vegetables followed, it relaxed into more comfortable mirth. Khem scampered onto the scaffolding, turning a cartwheel that went awry as he got tangled up in his long robes.
"Master of Mischief!" came a cry from the crowd. "Rhyme us! Rhyme us!"
A swell of approval greeted this suggestion. The Rhyme was a pivotal part of the festival, where the Master had to make up nonsensical verses on the spot. The Hound grinned.
"Hmm, hmm ..." And then he smiled, put his hands behind him, and cleared his throat.
An honorable fellow is Deveren,
Lord Larath is always endeavorin'
To clean up the street
Which would be quite the feat
Save his own neck he seems to be severin'.
The crowd murmured, confused. They didn't get the joke, but some of them laughed a little anyway. Khem stared right at Deveren, his lips curved in a knowing smile. It was a threat, plain and simple, and Deveren stared back. Almost, it seemed, he could count the minutes left to him. He leaned down with unnatural calmness and said to Allika, "Go find Pedric. We'll need his help."
She nodded, then slipped away, vanishing amid the sea of legs. Meanwhile, Khem had found another victim for his wit. He turned back to Jaranis, pointed at him, and intoned:
Of guardsmen, Jaranis is master. Wrong-doers are fast, but he's faster. But who harks to rules
When they run with the fools? Tonight could bring utter disaster.
There was no laughter this time. Something was definitely going on. With a little jump, the Master of Mischief turned to the imprisoned actor:
A diplomat of great renown, Damir finds his world upside down! Here bound in the stocks,
He's a target for rocks,
And aid shall not come from this town!
He executed a flip, and disappeared into the crowd. Then, to Deveren's horror, a fist-sized stone slammed against the stocks.
"No!" he shrieked. He headed at once toward the dais. Almost immediately a shower of stones pelted the trapped Kyle. The actor cried out, clenching his fists reflexively and trying to duck his head. Deveren had never known so many people could be in one place. Wherever he tried to push through, he seemed to meet with resistance. And then, his horror escalating, he realized he wasn't imagining it. People were deliberately moving in his way, preventing him from reaching "Damir." Growling angrily, Deveren began to punch his way through.
One rock shattered Kyle's nose, and blood cascaded down. Another caught him in the eye. Deveren wasn't even aware of his own voice screaming out futile protests.
Suddenly he hit the earth hard. A heavyset, obviously poor older man pummelled him violently. "Filthy bastard!" he cried. "Damn rich nobles like you take it all..." The man was hauled off of Deveren by a guardsman, who in turn had to defend himself as the man attacked him, crying, "You're supposed to protect us . . . damn city isn't safe...."
Deveren struggled to his feet, almost falling as bodies slammed into him. It had become a fullfledged riot now. He stumbled and fell again. Fear shot through him as he clawed his way upright. If he fell again, he might not get up.
He could hear Kyle's sobbing. At last he was there. Fighting the press of bodies all around him, Deveren struggled onto the platform, getting first one leg up and then the other. He struggled to his feet and lowered his head, ramming the guardsman who challenged him. With an "oof!" the man stumbled backward, falling into the maddened crowd and disappearing from Deveren's view—but not before Deveren had managed to seize the key ring from the man's pouch.
Blocking the rain of stones with his own body, he hurried to free Kyle. The actor's face was like so much raw meat now. Blood streamed freely and there were huge, almost fist-sized lumps on his head. Deveren could even see shards of broken bone. He gasped as a stone landed squarely on his spine, sending waves of pain quivering through his body. He inserted the key, turned it, and pushed up the stocks that bound the actor's arms. Deveren gathered the limp form in his arms.
He feared he was too late. One eye stared up at him sightlessly; the other was swollen shut by an enormous purple bruise. If the actor survived, Deveren suspected he would be blind. Then Kyle's chest hitched, slightly. He was still alive. Deveren had to get him to Vervain.
Biting back his anger, and aware that the stones had stopped being hurled at him, Deveren stood up. Lost in their own vented rage, the rioters had forgotten about him and "Damir." Their targets now were one another. Deveren scanned the crowd for a possible friendly face and a chance to escape.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vandaris struggling toward him. Compassion and caring was on the old man's face, not in the least obscured by the ridiculous painted grin. Deveren was moved. Suddenly, as if Vandaris's feet had been cut out from underneath him, he fell, to be swallowed up by the manic crowd. The last thing Deveren saw of him was horror as his hands reached to clutch his abdomen, as if he were in terrible pain.
No! mourned Deveren. Not Vandaris, too ...
"Dev!" The word was shouted, but even so, Deveren barely heard it over the shrieks of the maddened revelers. Pedric, with Allika perched on his shoulders out of the way of trampling feet, stood at the foot of the dais. "I've got about four dozen doses of the tincture with me right now. Is Damir all right?"
"I'm going to take him to Vervain," Deveren yelled back. He moved over toward the younger thief, threw himself on his stomach, and spoke urgently into the young man's ear.
"Vandaris is sick," he said. Pedric groaned in sympathy. "I saw him go down right over there. He was trying to help—it got him right away. Get him—take him to Rabbit's. Make him take the tincture. Then work with him—we need to dose the guards and then we'll have a prayer of getting this under control, at least a little. I'll get more doses when I see Vervain, and try to catch up with you. Understand?"
Pedric nodded. Allika did too, her little face sober and comprehending. Impulsively, Deveren reached out and fluffed her short hair. She smiled, just a little. Then they were gone.
For just a moment, Deveren watched the insane crowd. They were ripping one another to bits. Gods, did they stand any kind of a chance against this madness? Two thieves, an exhausted Healer, and a little girl. He closed his eyes briefly, but refused to surrender to despair. He would fight this. He would fight this with everything he had in him, down to the last drop of blood. He had to believe there was some way to win, to bring Braedon's people back to their senses. Because if he did not believe it, then the last candle would have gone out indeed, the last hope would be exhausted, and the world would fall to chaos and insanity.
He returned to Kyle and lifted the injured man as gently as he could, then scanned the crowd for the place of safest passage.
Far from the scenes of wanton violence, Marrika sat on the beach near the Braedon port. By the moonlight, she whittled a chunk of whalebone, humming tunelessly.
She had been where the action was, about four hours ago. She had seen the crowds go mad; had watched Khem orchestrate the murder of Damir Larath with pride and satisfaction. Deveren's murder, too, would come tonight. He who had thought to lead the thieves. Thieves who had turned to her, instead.
All things came to her now.
Scritch, scritch. The carving took shape beneath her skilled fingers.
Now the night belonged to the organized. The infiltration had begun. The murders were no longer random, but carefully calculated, as professionals took control of the town. Some of them were from Mhar. But some were her own people.
Scritch, scritch. It was clear now what she was carving. The moonlight glinted on the white bone. A skull grinned back at her. Gently, she kissed the smooth white surface, then continued. There came a brief flicker of light, almost subtle enough to be missed. Marrika rose, absently brushing sand from her buttocks. Her gaze focused, concentrated.
Th
e signal came again. It was time.
Gleefully Marrika picked up the dark lantern and flashed the signal to the ships approaching, mere faint shapes on the horizon.
The answering signal came again, and Marrika's heart began to beat faster. They were coming. Khem had not lied. They were really coming! The approaching Mharian navy and their pirate friends would meet with no resistance. The guards had been among the first to succumb to the curse.
She shivered in the night air, and hugged herself, jumping up and down with delight. At last, she would fully come into her own. Master of thieves, master—no, damn it, mistress—of Braedon, maybe all of Byrn.
She glanced down at the skull she still held clutched in one hand. Softly, she whispered to it, "Soon it will be Deveren's."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Your horse is strong beneath you,
Your heart is brave and bold,
So ride, O ride, brave Deveren
Before the night is old.
Ride hard and strong and swiftly,
For in your hands resides
The fate of every Byrnian
And Mharian besides.
—Chorus, Byrnian ballad, Deveren's Ride
Deveren had had nightmares in which he ran as fast as he could, exerting every muscle, fighting to make progress, and never seemed to be able to move a single step. He felt as if he were trapped now in one of those nightmares. The crowd was thick, and both Deveren and the injured man he bore received more blows. Deveren was jostled back and forth, sometimes losing his direction altogether. He fought back panic. He was one of a few sane people still left in the town, and he knew he needed to use that coolness to his advantage—or die, trampled and torn to bits by the rabid mob.
Kyle grew heavier and heavier a weight with each passing moment. Deveren's muscles trembled with exhaustion, but he stubbornly clung to his precious burden. Finally the crowd thinned just a little and he was able to make progress. And when he at last spotted the temple of Health, with its lamps burning in the window and a sense of peace about it sharply at odds with the lunacy running rampant through the streets, Deveren almost sobbed with relief.
He couldn't manage the gate while carrying Kyle. "Vervain!" he cried out.
The door flew open and the Healer rushed out, immediately assessing the situation and opening the gate for Deveren. "We've got to get him inside," gasped Deveren. "He's been badly hurt... that crazy mob ..."
Vervain again moved ahead, opening the door and permitting Deveren to enter. He laid the body on the table. Coming up behind him, Vervain gasped in soft sympathy.
"Your brother ... oh, Deveren, I'm sorry."
"No, it's not. No time to explain. You've got to help him!"
But this time, instead of moving quickly to aid, Vervain merely regarded Deveren with great sorrow in her eyes. "Deveren ... I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for him. It's too late. He must have died some time ago."
Disbelieving, Deveren bent over the actor. In the warm glow of lamplight, he saw the truth in what the Blesser had said.
"Ah, no," he whispered in futile protest. "No, no, no ..." When had Kyle died? How long had he been carrying a corpse? Could he have saved the actor had he pushed harder, run faster? He closed his eyes in misery.
"He's dead because of me," Deveren said softly. "He's an actor. I hired him to impersonate my brother. They killed Kyle, thinking he was Damir. It's my fault." He felt the gentle touch of the Healer's hand on his shoulder, turning him around, away from the sight of the dead man.
"And part of you is rejoicing, that it wasn't your brother," said Vervain. He looked at her, shocked. "Didn't know Healers could read minds," he said with a trace of sarcasm.
She smiled, ignoring the barb that had sprung from pain. "I am a Healer. That means I know people very well. It's all right, Deveren. It was Kyle's time. Death comes when she will, and not even Healers may challenge her."
Deveren laughed, a short, harsh, angry bark. He turned back to Kyle and closed the single unseeing eye gently. "The performance of a lifetime, my friend. Forgive me."
He took a deep breath and composed himself. "I understand that you've made several batches of the tincture," he said, changing the subject.
Vervain nodded. "Can't you smell it?" Now that she mentioned it, Deveren realized the little temple was redolent with some sort of strong odor. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was certainly powerful. "I've got my two Tenders busy bottling it when it cools. Pedric has come by and taken several doses."
Deveren nodded. "Yes, I sent him by here. And I assume you'd like me to take some as well." A slow, strange smile spread over Vervain's face. "No. I have another task for you tonight, Deveren Larath—a task that was set for you by Health herself, if you are willing." Utterly confused, Deveren managed, "What are you talking about?"
The smile grew. Vervain's face almost glowed, as with an inner light, and her eyes were luminous. "I have had a vision," she said softly. She reached and took Deveren's hand in hers, gazing at it, gently stroking the fine hairs on the back. "My own task is clear. There is no one else who can make the tincture, and there are many who will find their way to the temple tonight to be cured. This is how I shall serve. But there are powerful forces on the move on this dark night—more powerful than we dared suspect." She lifted her eyes to his, and her voice trembled with awe as she spoke. "We were arrogant to think that the gods would not intervene when mankind has so blasphemed. Health herself would help us set things right, and she is not alone. Deveren—she wishes you to be her avatar."
Deveren could only stare, his gaze locked with the Healer's. "But... how? I'm ... Vervain, I'm not even the right sex to be a Healer!"
At that, the Blesser of Health chuckled softly. "Do you think so trivial a thing matters to a goddess?"
"What... how ..."
"That does not matter. Will you accept the task? For tonight, will you be Health's Chosen—the only man who has ever been granted the gift of heart magic? You have been a key part of this ever since the outset. Now you have a chance to help stop it."
Her eyes pleaded with him to say yes. Fear welled inside him. He had had a glimpse of the sort of person he could have been—Vervain had seen it, felt it. How could she think for a moment that he would possibly be acceptable to a goddess? The strain must have addled her wits.
Still, he knew he could not tell her no. Mutely, he held out the other hand to her. And gasped.
The moment her fingers made contact with both hands, Deveren felt an unnatural heat emanating from her. It was as if he had opened his palms to a blazing hearth. First it warmed, and then it grew hot, hotter. He did not pull away, but he gritted his teeth against the pain.
I am the Third who comes. Wield you the touch of Health.
The voice was inside his head. It was soft, strong, feminine. But it was most definitely not Vervain's. At that instant, the heat lessened and seemed to move to his chest, swelling, filling every crevice of it with a warmth that was more than physical. He ached with the pains of the world now, it seemed; his compassion for the injured, the sick, made him sob aloud. Tears filled his eyes.
Abruptly, it lessened, became tolerable. He gazed down at his hands in wonder. They glowed with a soft, barely perceptible radiance. Vervain removed her own hands, and when he glanced up, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he saw that her eyes were wet as well. He looked at her, and he could sense—almost see—the exhaustion emanating from her. Without realizing what he did, he lifted his right hand and placed it between her breasts. The glow around his hand increased, and he felt it leap from his hand to her heart. She inhaled swiftly, closing her eyes, and the weariness and fear fled before the healing of a goddess. Smiling, blinking back tears, she touched his face gently, then stepped back.
"Go, Deveren. Go... and Heal."
Vandaris wondered why he was dreaming of herbs.
The scents wafted through the scenario of the dream —or rather nightmare. Damir's face was being pounded to a bloody pulp. In t
he background were the cries of the Nightlands. Vandaris moved forward, anxious to help ...
.. . and the pain, the pain, oh gods the agony of it. . . like a knife, a spear, a firebrand, shooting through his chest and gut. No one to help. No one to even break his fall as he hurtled toward the cobblestones, and his arms refused to move to catch himself. He fell heavily, striking his head. And there he lay as consciousness disappeared, breathing in the scents of herbs in the middle of a sweaty mass of humanity, wondering why in the name of all the gods he couldn't seem to do something, anything, to stave off the encroaching madness of a world turned upside down.
He became aware of something cool and wet on his forehead, easing the pain. Vandaris realized that he lay not on cold cobblestones, but on something else—a wooden floor? He opened his eyes and saw the reason for the overwhelming scent of herbs; hundreds of them seemed to point directly down at him from the rafters.
"He's waking up," came a nervous voice.
"Good," said another. Suddenly Pedric's face came into Vandaris's view. "Lord Vandaris? I apologize for the ropes, but they really are necessary."
And it was only then that Vandaris realized he was bound hand and foot.
A wave of hot fury swept through the councilman. With the anger came energy that banished pain. He roared in outrage and struggled with the strength of a man half his age, shredding the flesh about his wrists but succeeding only in tightening the knots.
"Help me get him down, Griel!" cried Pedric, leaping on the writhing body.
Griel ventured close, then backed away, wringing his hands. "He's awfully violent, Pedric, I don't know that I can—oh!"
Vandaris kicked out at the skinny older man, who jumped out of the way just in time. He growled at Pedric and rolled suddenly, pinning the youth beneath his bulky frame. Pedric gasped for air, and Vandaris grinned wickedly.
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