Fox -
The Fox is clever, the Fox is wise;
The Fox is getting a big surprise -
Because your Theft is not one, but three
If truly our Leader you wish to be.
We leave to you the how and when,
But the where must be the councilman's den.
The Fox gives Fox a taste quite fine, When out of his head you drink your wine.
The hounds will chase, the hounds will tear Your flesh, unless their teeth you bear.
And last, the Fox of his brush is proud — But Vixen and Vandaris might not allow The Fox to acquire his one, two, three But if you fail, a mere thief you'll be.
Deveren cursed softly to himself. He recognized the ornate, flowing script of his friend Pedric, and was willing to bet money that the feckless young man had been the one to both compose the poem and name the items. A few things about the note he would need to puzzle out later, but he'd guessed two things immediately. All the items were obviously in Vandaris's home-the words "councilman's den" made that clear. The phrase "might not allow" indicated to him that the objects had to be taken while the family was present. He reread the note, memorizing it, and shook his head. "His" thieves were clearly not going to let him off easily. He reached up to one of the lamps that hung outside the door and placed the parchment inside. A sudden voice at his ear caused him to start violently, almost burning his fingers as the paper caught and flamed.
"Well, Tomai," Damir said with a hint of humor in his smooth, cultured voice, "enjoy slaying the tiger in his own lair. I, of course, expect you to return the items as soon as you can." As Deveren sputtered his annoyance, Damir grinned wickedly and ducked back inside. As soon as the door had closed, Allika poked her head round a corner.
"He knew what to do, Fox!" she apologized as he glared at her. "He went right up to the window and stuck his hand out, and I knew your brother was in town, and I thought…" Her voice grew thick. She gazed up at him, remorse all over her face, Miss Lally trailing in the dirt.
Deveren squatted down to her level and smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Little Squirrel. No harm done this time. But in the future, if you have notes for me, give them only to me, all right?" She nodded, and smiled again. Like a shadow, she vanished from sight.
When Deveren returned to the bustle of the gala a few moments later, he saw that Pedric was deep in conversation with the radiant Lorinda. More than that, he'd managed to get the girl to hang on his words as much as Pedric hung on hers. Deveren maneuvered himself close enough to catch the drift of their conversation.
Pedric's normal expression at a social gathering was that of a slightly bored aristocrat who had heard everything worth listening to. Deveren noticed that the youth looked now as he did during particularly dangerous "outings," his eyes sparkling and his face flushed with excited color. His normally controlled movements were large and effusive as he gestured excitedly.
"And then the Queen, clutching both bloodied daggers, cries out, 'Ah, gods! They were not my enemy's children- they were mine!' "
Lorinda, enraptured, gasped sympathetically. "The Elf-King tricked her into killing her own children? Oh, how awful!"
Deveren was not disturbed by the blood-drenched conversation. He recognized it as a scene from The Queen of All, a play that had just opened at His Majesty's Theater. Both he and Pedric were patrons of the show, and it was playing to a house that did not have a single empty seat for any of its performances.
"Yes!" Pedric yelped, thoroughly entrenched in his story. He plopped down beside Lorinda and continued. "And then there's a big flash and puff of smoke, and Lady Death appears. She's willing to make a bargain with the Queen for the lives of her two children, you see, and-"
"Pedric, Pedric!" Deveren admonished jokingly, laying a friendly hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It's one thing to give a play an enthusiastic review. It's quite another to spoil the plot for someone-you'll lose a sale that way, and that's bad for business!"
"On the contrary, Lord Larath," Lorinda responded. "I wish I could see The Queen of All more than ever! Do you know, I've never seen a theatrical performance in my life?"
"Goodness, how barbaric you servants of the gods are," said Pedric teasingly. Lorinda laughed. "Well, I will personally escort you to the next play that comes into town. Unfortunately for your theatrical edification, and not unfortunately for our purses, The Queen of All has no seats left for the rest of its run."
Deveren smiled. An idea had just come to him-a wonderful, perfect idea. "Well, at least not its public run," he said.
Lorinda turned her gorgeous eyes on him. "What do you mean?"
"Well, the Councilman's Seat has a large hall, doesn't it?" Deveren was referring to the honorary domicile of the Head Councilman, the beautiful, sprawling building that was home to Vandaris and, now, Lorinda.
Pedric's eyes lit up even brighter as he comprehended what Deveren was suggesting. "Of course it does! Oh, Deveren, you clever fellow!"
"What?" Lorinda, the novice theatergoer, was confused.
"A command performance," Deveren explained. "Your father, as Head Councilman, has the right to invite any thespian or musician to perform exclusively at the Councilman's Seat. He could ask the cast of The Queen of All to do the play on Lisdae, a night they traditionally have off."
"That sounds wonderful!" Lorinda clapped her hands together in an unconsciously childlike gesture. "Would they mind? I mean, they might be looking forward to a night to relax…"
"We'll make it a celebration," suggested Pedric. Deveren grinned to himself. Only Pedric would have had the audacity to volunteer someone else's home-and a councilman's home at that-for a celebration. "It won't be as nice as Dev's, of course, but then, no one's festivities compare to Deveren's."
"I'd be inclined to agree," said Lorinda, gazing warmly at the young man. "After all, it's where you and I met."
Deveren glanced from one youthful face to the other. His heart sank. Much as he enjoyed being around young lovers, he knew that this was a bad match. Pedric might be the younger son of a nobleman, and titled in his own right, but his habits and temperament suited his true occupation-that of professional thief. And Lorinda was grounded in the highest morals, thanks to her time as a Tender, and was a councilman's daughter as well. No, it was bound to end badly. He only hoped it wouldn't end with Pedric's slim, aristocratic neck in a noose.
Lorinda's eyes left Pedric's long enough to register that her father and Damir were returning. "There he is! Let me go ask him right now. Oh, I do hope he'll say yes!" With the carefree enthusiasm of an adolescent, she gathered up the long, floor-length folds of her gown and literally ran to her father. Deveren heard Pedric gasp, softly and poignantly, as the younger man caught a glimpse of long, strong, tanned legs tapering to small, slipper-covered feet.
"You could break your heart over a girl like that," said Pedric quietly.
"Well, damn it, don't," Deveren warned. The words sounded hard; he changed the subject. "Thank you for giving me the idea about the play. The theater gathering will be a wonderful opportunity for me to complete my… job."
Vandaris and Lorinda were too far away for Deveren and Pedric to catch their conversation, but it appeared that the father couldn't resist his daughter's pleas. His face softened as he listened to her animated chatter, one gnarled, strong hand reaching to smooth a dark curl away from her high forehead in a gesture of paternal affection.
"You're welcome, though I hardly did it for your sake," Pedric replied. "And by the way, Dev, if you don't return her brush, I'll come looking for it on her behalf."
So that was what the cryptic rhyme about the "fox's brush" meant. He wondered if Pedric had deliberately given him the clue, glanced at the boy's face, and decided that the slip was unintentional. "And how did you know about this?" yelped Deveren in mock outrage. Pedric turned his gaze back to his friend and grinned wickedly.
"Well," he said modestly, "I wrote the damn thing, didn't I?"
CHAPTER F
IVE
For my Chosen in this world walk a perilous path: My Sword of Vengeance cuts both ways, protecting the wrongly accused and destroying those who have trespassed.
Those who would be my Blessers must be strong men indeed, to wield so powerful a weapon as this.
— from the Tenets of Vengeance
There were no windows in Jemma's cell. She was utterly cut off from the world outside, from the green things of nature that for so long had been a daily part of her life. She could not estimate the passage of the hours, nor the rise and set of the sun. The guards, huge and silent, deliberately brought her meager meals at irregular intervals, to further confuse her. As best the aged Healer could guess, she had been in Seacliff s dungeon for five days.
The cell was tiny, with barely enough room for her to stretch out. Old straw that smelled of rot served her for a bed, though moments of sleep were few, as her inflamed joints allowed her little rest. Torches burned in the hallway but not in her cell; the only light Jemma had was what little managed to creep through the small, barred window of the wooden door.
She clutched herself and shivered vainly against the damp cold. The elderly Healer was almost beginning to look forward to the interrogation, which was, no doubt, exactly what her captors intended. Why were they postponing it? One man who had mind magic could have gotten everything from her. She wondered, with a faint burst of hope, if perhaps Bhakir was unaware of her communications with Castyll. Please, gods, let it be so… But that was false hope speaking. Bhakir would have no other reason to have taken her.
She heard the booted footfalls of the guards, and readied herself. The heavy bolt, ludicrously strong against so feeble an inmate, slammed back and the door opened. Jemma winced at the torchlight, even its faint illumination painful to eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness.
"Come, old woman," one of the big men growled. Jemma tried to rise, but found that her knees would not let her. The guard, impatient, reached out a beefy hand and hauled her to her feet. Despite herself, Jemma cried out as the pain exploded in her knees and elbows.
"Shut your mouth, old bitch, or I'll shut it for you."
Jemma stifled her sounds of agony, for she had no doubt that the man was serious. The ungentle guard half led, half dragged her along the narrow corridor until he reached a much larger room. This door stood open, and several torches illuminated the interior. A brazier glowed invitingly. Jemma noticed that the stone floor was covered with sawdust, rather than the more common rushes, and the room was furnished with a rough-hewn wooden table and stools. Cloths covered items that hung from the walls and made odd-shaped bulges on the floor, but Jemma was not interested in the furnishings. A plate of bread, fruit, and cheese, and a pitcher of milk sat atop the table, and her mouth suddenly flooded with moisture in anticipation of real food.
"Bhakir says eat and get warm," stated the guard, shoving her inside. "Then he'll come talk to you." The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the bolt being thrown.
Jemma stumbled toward the table. Trembling, she forced her aching hands to tear off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly, washing the bite down with a swallow of milk. It wouldn't do to gorge herself. She'd nursed the ill back to health far too often not to know that it was unwise to foist much food on a stomach unused to it. But oh, the bread was soft and fresh, and the glistening blackberries fairly begged to be devoured. She shifted her stool closer to the brazier, and stretched her empty hand toward it. The warmth calmed her joints, and she closed her eyes in pleasure.
She was about halfway through her repast, eating slowly and carefully, when Bhakir entered. Jemma paused, the food suddenly tasting foul in her mouth. The counselor bowed mockingly and smiled, showing even white teeth.
"Good day, my dear Healer. I'm so pleased you could join me."
Jemma finished chewing and swallowed. "If that is true, then your hospitality is lacking, Bhakir," she said drily.
The man laughed heartily and seated himself opposite the Healer. One soft, manicured hand hovered over the plate of half-eaten food and selected a peach. He bit, chewed.
"Delicious," he proclaimed as he swallowed the mouthful. "Now that you've had something to eat, let us proceed to business. I'm sure you're wondering why I've… er, brought you here." "It had occurred to me. If you needed Healing work, you would have done better to talk to the present Blesser. I can do some, but-"
"It is not curing I'm after." And just that swiftly the pretense was gone. Jemma stared into the true face of Bhakir, a face that she assumed few seldom saw and fewer still wished to see. The dancing eyes had gone cold and piggish. No smile played about the red mouth, and the soft body suddenly seemed as hard and implacable as a boulder.
"Then… how may I be of service to my lord?" Jemma asked, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.
"Those who serve the goddess Health know a great many secrets," said Bhakir. "Secrets about healing, and curing, and restoration. Legend even mentions one or two Healers who brought the dead back to life."
Jemma felt a chill that even the warmth of the brazier could not dispel. "Legends are simply that," she said. "No Healer I have ever met could revive the dead. Only Health herself may do that. That is Lady Death's domain. We would not dare trespass there."
"No, no, you misunderstand me. Let the dead rot in peace." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Jemma's. "Those who would heal must first understand what it is to harm. Those who can cure," he said slowly, "know how to curse."
You are mad! Jemma wanted to shriek, but the horrible truth was that the man was in fact quite sane. He knew what he was asking her to do. Her mouth, suddenly dry, formed voiceless words. At last, she stammered, "I will not."
Bhakir frowned, and Jemma shrank back slightly. "You know how. Healer. It's part of your training."
"We — we are shown these evils to know where not to tread!"
"And I order you, on pain of your life, to obey me! I need a curse, and you will give me one!"
Frantically, Jemma shook her head. "Kill me, then! I answer to a higher power, and I swear by she whom I serve that I shall never betray that trust!"
Bhakir's frown mutated into a smile just as cruel. "We'll see, old woman." He rose and tugged the concealing cloths from the walls.
Jemma's heart spasmed in terror. The room was filled with torture devices.
She recognized a few: the rack, the wheel, the cat-o'-nine. Others were foreign to her, but their cold metal and wood promised exquisite pain. Even as protest caught in her throat, the door opened and four guards entered. They moved deliberately but without haste, knowing that struggle as she would, she was incapable of escaping. Strong hands closed on her, ripping the robes from her thin, wrinkled body. The good food crashed to the floor as they slammed Jemma down on the table and secured her with iron bands that had hitherto been cleverly concealed.
"Lord Bhakir!" she cried, writhing against the strong flesh and stronger iron that held her. "Please, lord, what you ask is evil, and you must know it to be so!"
Bhakir had turned his attention to the brazier, and Jemma watched in horror as he extracted a pincer, the ends glowing orange-hot, from the depths of the coals.
"Oh, of course it's evil," he said in a conversational tone. "That's why it's going to work."
A thought pierced Jemma's haze of panicked terror. "My hands!" she screamed, thinking that Bhakir was going to burn her fingers off one by one-one of the more common tortures whispered about by those who were interested in such things. "You can't hurt them-I wouldn't be able to work the magic!"
"I know that," replied Bhakir, a sharp note of irritation creeping into his modulated voice. "I would never hurt your hands, Lady Healer. Or your tongue. Don't worry. But the rest of your body- " and his gaze swept her ancient, bony frame "-is fair game."
Before she realized what was happening, Jemma felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the big toe of her right foot. She jerked reflexively, but her knee banged against encircling metal. One of the guards had l
aid open her foot, the gash from ball to heel gaping open and dripping blood. With a curious calmness, she realized that the floor was covered with sawdust rather than rushes to make the task of soaking up blood that much simpler.
Then Bhakir cauterized the wound with the pincers, and her calmness fled.
Vervain cried out once, sharply, wordlessly, and the raw sound of her own scream brought her awake. She bolted upright, gasping and clutching the rumpled pillow protectively to her breasts. Her dark eyes flickered wildly, but nothing was amiss in her room.
All was as it should be. The door was closed and bolted. Moonlight, filtered through shutters, cast a pall over the many plants that filled the Blesser's private sleeping chamber. Vervain took a deep breath, the air fragrant with the scents of herbs and flowers, and calmed herself.
Though she now realized that her fear had come from a dream rather than an actual threat, she did not dismiss the nightmare as others might have. Vervain knew better than that. The Healer who had trained her had taught her to respect her dreams.
"They are the messengers of the night," old Jemma had told her, back when Vervain was just a Tender studying in Mhar. "When you are awake, you trust your five senses for information. And when you sleep, you must trust your dreams in the same way. Pay attention to them!"
Vervain had been lucky to serve under Jemma. Her mother, a Healer herself, had been born in Mhar. It did not take too much effort to arrange for Vervain to study abroad, though it was not usual. Most Tenders were taught by Blessers in their own countries, usually their own cities or towns.
She reached down for the goblet of water she always kept at her side at night, and gulped at it. Her throat hurt from her scream. As she drank, Vervain examined her dream.
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