A low growl came by his right foot. Deveren froze, fear jolting through his system. He didn't even dare look down at the beast, for fear the eye contact would be regarded as a challenge. Instead, he closed his eyes and wished desperately that he'd brought a dagger with him tonight.
He felt one of the great canines snuffling at his knee, felt the warm breath and cold nose even through his breeches. From the other side of the wall, he heard the crisp, firm sound of booted footsteps approaching.
Deveren held his breath, afraid that his nervous, rapid breathing might give him away, both to the animal that sniffed him with drowsy confusion and the extremely efficient captain who was on patrol just a few yards away.
The dog's nose moved to the other leg, continued sniffing. The booted footsteps came closer, closer, until they were right where Deveren stood huddled in the cold embrace of the wall's shadow. They did not pause, but continued purposefully on, fading into the distance as Jaranis's route took him away from the thief who stood, heart pounding, on the other side of the wall.
The sniffing stopped. The big dog snorted, irritated and baffled by this thing that looked human but smelled like a tree. The warm breath went away. When Deveren chanced a look down at the beast, he found it flopped over on the grass, breathing deeply and regularly.
Deveren closed his eyes in relief, the tension flooding out of him. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he knelt down beside the unconscious animal and gently unfastened its collar. The other two were equally insensible and offered no protest as he relieved them of their symbolic "teeth."
Stuffing the three studded collars into his pouch, Deveren cautiously climbed up and peered over the wall. Remarkably, his luck still held. No one was about. Quickly he scrambled back over the wall, landing softly on the grass.
"Be careful, Deveren Larath," came a deep, musical, feminine voice behind him.
Startled, Deveren whirled. He stood inches away from a beautiful young woman who smiled enigmatically at him. At once he knew who she must be; her clothing gave her identity away immediately. She was dressed head to toe in a figure-hugging gown of dark black. She carried a carved staff, which he knew to be made out of rosewood, and the jewels embedded in it glinted in the moon's light. Her head was bare, and her long hair was parted in the middle and fell in a cascade of white down her back.
White? Deveren thought for an instant. Bleached, clearly. She’s taking this resemblance to her goddess a bit far. For of course he knew the woman to be the Blesser of the goddess Death. All Blessers would have been invited; it would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette for Vandaris not to have extended an invitation. But most Blessers didn't take advantage of such social gatherings- and he'd never before heard of Death's Blesser ever appearing at such an event.
He opened his mouth to greet her politely, telling himself that it was her dark clothing that had enabled her to escape his notice, but she held up a commanding hand. The words died in his throat. "Be careful," she repeated, "on this night of nights. Sometimes mortals try to cheat Lady Death. I am the First who comes. Be prepared for the others."
Without another word, and completely ignoring his half-voiced query, the Blesser of Death turned her back on him and strode into the shadows, which reached to hide her as if she hadn't been there at all.
Deveren's throat was dry. His heart slammed against his chest and he found his hands were shaking. He leaned back against the wall. What had she seen? What did she know? Was she just trying to frighten him with her strange pronouncement? What was all that nonsense about "first" and "others?" One thing was for certain. He did need to be careful. Deveren couldn't believe he hadn't heard or seen her approach.
He calmed himself, took a deep, steadying breath, and composed his features. By the time he ran lightly up the steps to reenter the Councilman's Seat, he had an easy smile for the guards on duty. Deveren Larath had clearly gone for a stroll in the pleasant night air; nothing more.
He walked down the hall, keeping his movements loose and comfortable in case anyone was watching, and paused by the doors to the large hall. Within, he could hear the clear voice of the "Queen" railing against her enemy, hear the answering rumble of the Captain of the Guards as he protested his innocence. Halfway through the first act, then. Plenty of time.
Deveren's normal cocksurety began to return in some small measure. He'd been badly shaken, first by the dire combination of dogs and guard, and then later by the uncanny visitation of Death's earthly representative. Now he reminded himself that he had finished two of the three tasks that had been set to him, and the third-stealing a hairbrush! — was certain to be the easiest.
He ambled guilelessly through the halls, smiling at everyone he met, conducting himself as if he belonged. He was known and recognized, and encountered no difficulty.
He entered the wing that housed the private solars, and quietly began poking his head into room after room. At last he came to the one that must belong to Lorinda.
It was simple, almost austere, as befitted one who had lived most of her life in devotion to her deity. There was only a trunk, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a bed. The stone walls had been whitewashed, and though Deveren did not dare light a candle that might signify his presence, there was plenty of illumination pouring through the opened door and striking those clean, unadorned white walls.
No, not quite unadorned. A painting graced one of the walls. Directly beneath it was a small rush mat, a basin full of dried flowers, and an unlit candle. Curious, Deveren stepped forward and peered at the painting. It was small and crudely done, probably the work of Lorinda herself, but the image was unmistakable. It was Love, the naked little child, embracing her sacred beast, a fawn as young and innocent as herself. At once Deveren realized that the rush mat and its attendant items were the girl's private altar, and he stepped back hastily.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw still more flowers. Clearly, young Lorinda went to the Garden every day and festooned her austere quarters with the one decoration that most pleased her goddess. A smile touched Deveren's lips. This glimpse into her private room revealed a great deal about the girl-no, the woman, he mentally corrected himself. And he liked what he saw.
But time was passing, and the longer he dallied, the more likely it was that he would get caught. The thought snapped him out of his reverie, and at once Deveren's eye became critical, exploratory, us he began to seek out Lorinda's hairbrush.
He did not find it. Deveren frowned to himself. In a place this clean, this uncluttered, it ought to be a simple matter. He placed his back to the door and began analyzing the room, inch by inch. The bed. Its coverings were not tousled. The blankets lay neatly over the pallet, the single pillow hid nothing. He patted the bed down gently, careful not to disturb anything.
He examined the top of the little table. Bare, save for the empty basin and pitcher full of water. Where would a young woman keep her personal items? Kastara had always left hers lying about. She was rather bad about it, actually, and Deveren was always finding hairpins or combs or mirrors in the most unlikely places…
The trunk. He knelt beside it and opened it. It was not locked, to his surprise and pleasure. Inside were several winter furs, many of Lorinda's clothes, and a small, simple, wooden box. Beside the box, glittering in the dim light, was the girl's jewelry-a necklace, earrings, and some brooches.
Deveren frowned. Why would the jewels be out of the -
Deveren picked up the box and shook it gently. Something about the size and weight of a hairbrush clunked inside. Deveren's confusion turned to annoyance. Pedric, of course. To add just a bit more spice to the quest, it was clear that the younger thief must have taken the one box that Lorinda would have bothered to lock-her jewelry box-and put the brush inside. Naturally, it wouldn't have occurred to Pedric to worry about the baubles.
I'll have to think of something to do to Pedric in retaliation for this, Deveren thought darkly. In the meantime, he'd have to open the cursed
thing. It wouldn't do to abscond with the box-too noticeable. He hadn't expected to have to use his tools, but he had thought it best to be prepared. Now he was grateful for his foresight.
Deveren squatted back, pulled out the little box, closed the trunk lid, and placed the box on the trunk. He found his lockpicking tools, leaned forward, and examined the jewelry box. It was a simple wooden box, not even decorated. The lock appeared to be equally straightforward. Deveren moved the box so the light shone full upon it, and positioned one slender metal tool inside, moving it about experimentally. Then he twisted.
Nothing.
Odd. The locking mechanism must be more complicated than he had first thought. Now Deveren took the second tool and inserted it into the lock as well. His concentration narrowed, and he focused his thoughts, reaching out with his hand magic skills to augment his slim, delicate fingers. Too much pressure and the lock would break; too little, it wouldn't open.
Scritch, scrape. Unaware that he did so, Deveren gnawed his lower lip. He extended his thoughts, making them an expansion of his fingers. Something was in there, blocking his tools. Grimly, he applied more pressure, increasing it until he was pressing down hard against the blockage.
In the back of his mind, far away from his intense focus, a warning bell sounded. There was something wrong with this, something very wrong indeed.
Be careful, Lord Larath…
Just as he pressed as hard as he could with his tools, Deveren realized what the wrongness was.
There was a loud snap and Deveren, gasping, threw himself backward, acting more on gut instinct than on logical thought. Something sprang at his face with the angry sound of a buzzing insect. He felt a sharp sting and clapped his hand to his cheek. At that same instant he heard a click and the box opened.
What in the Nightlands was going on here?
Cautiously, Deveren glanced into the box. There it was, the simple boar bristle hairbrush that had cost him so much effort. He picked the box up, absently sticking the brush in his pouch, and turned it to the moon's light.
It was a simple box, padded with linen, clearly designed to hold a modest girl's meager collection of jewels. But there was another, smaller box inside it, made of metal. This had been crudely fastened to the locking mechanism and had clearly never been part of the original design.
He was more confused than before. Pedric might have put the brush inside a locked box to provide his friend with more of a "challenge," but he had no skills that would enable him to set a trap like this. Neither did anyone else in Deveren's rather ragtag little group. For now that it was sprung, Deveren could see that it was clever, for all its simplicity. No, not merely clever-professional. Inside was the broken bit of his lockpick, wedged in firmly. There was also a small sliver of metal that clearly had been held in place by a tiny latch. When he'd sprung it, it had snapped forward, and a sliver of something white had shot out.
Deveren peered closer. It was a thin needle — or part of one. The same movement that had broken his lockpicking tool had also snapped this long sliver of what looked to be carved bone. Deveren remembered the small thing that had shot at his face, scratching it. Had he not broken the needle, it would have jabbed deeply into his fingers; had he not jerked back in time, it would have embedded itself in the soft flesh of his face.
Again, his hand went to his cheek, felt the already drying blood. Placing the box down, he turned and knelt, groping oh so carefully for the broken needle amid the rushes on the floor. He remembered where it had fallen and soon found it. Gingerly, he placed it in his palm and carried it to the open window for closer inspection.
It was a carved bone needle, all right. And there was something on it, something viscous and dark in the moon's silvery glow. Deveren brought it to his nose and sniffed. His eyes widened in horror.
Poison. Readily available from one of the translucent sea creatures that sometimes washed up on Braedon's shores, this poison was sent to the north, where soldiers augmented their weapons with it when fighting the Ghil. And it had scratched his cheek…
Deveren's legs gave way and he sat down hard. His heart pounded in fear. The poison would act quickly, within seconds. He swallowed, his mouth dry as sand, waiting for the pain to hit as he stared at the needle fragment.
It didn't come. After a long moment, Deveren realized he was probably the luckiest man in Braedon right now, perhaps in all of Byrn. He had been scratched with the broken end of the needle, not the poisoned end. He began to shake as the full meaning of this strange little trap sank in.
Only his thieves knew about the theft of the hairbrush. There was a traitor in his midst with murder on his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Know Love, when she comes to find you.
— Love's motto
Pedric Dunsan knew a perfect night for romance when he saw one, and tonight was the most perfect such evening he had ever experienced.
Everything had gone beautifully. From the dinner of venison in pepper sauce, braised greens, and rose pudding, all complemented by lush Mharian wine, to the pleasant wandering hand-in-hand through her father's house, to the tears that dampened Lorinda's soft cheeks during the powerful first act of The Queen of All, there hadn't been an awkward pause or a misspoken word.
There were only two things that threatened to cast shadows on this most wonderful of nights as far as Pedric was concerned. The first was worry that Deveren might not achieve all three of his thefts, but that had been laid aside when Pedric witnessed the transaction over the hunting cup. If Deveren could manage that one, he could probably handle the rest.
The second was the tremendous, unlikely, indeed almost unthinkable act that Pedric was planning to commit during intermission. He kept turning over his decision in his mind, and coming up with plenty of reasons not to pursue such a dire plan of action.
But every time he decided against it, Lorinda would squeeze his hand, or laugh, or say something startlingly insightful, or simply look up at him with that serene half smile that seemed to be her constant expression and he would know, bone deep, that his plan was the right one.
During the intermission, alone with the adored and adorable Lorinda, with the exotic scents of night-blooming summer flowers surrounding them, Pedric Dunsan planned to propose.
Then, faster than he had imagined possible, the first act was over. The Queen's husband lay in a pool of blood, slain by the treachery of the Elf-King. She vowed a terrible revenge, and the lights were suddenly extinguished.
There was a hushed pause, then the sound of furious clapping. Pedric joined in, though his heart was pounding almost more loudly than the applause. The lights were lit, and the audience rose to their seats to mingle and discuss the play thus far.
Lorinda's face was blotchy red and her nose and eyes swollen. She glanced up at Pedric, then away. "I'm sure I must look dreadful," she murmured, wiping at her wet face. "It's just-oh, Pedric, I never dreamed that this was what the theater was like! The actors-they had me completely convinced. Especially-what was his name? The one who plays the Elf-King?" The tears had dried, but her face remained red. Pedric gazed down at her, thinking of Marrika's scornful comments about the "playacting" that Pedric so loved, and thought Lorinda even lovelier now than when he had first met her.
She looked at him expectantly and he gathered his thoughts. "Oh, yes, Kyle Kierdan. He's new to Braedon, but he's just wonderful. He can play anything." He extended his arm. "Would you care to join me for a walk outside? The Garden is lovely this time of the evening, and," he winked conspiratorially, "I can show you how to get through the maze."
Lorinda's reddened eyes narrowed as she regarded him. Innocent as she was, even she knew that walks in the Garden alone with a man-especially a walk in the maze! — were an invitation to dalliance. For a long moment, Pedric feared that she would refuse him. His heart lurched, and he wondered if she would also refuse his proposal. He realized that he hadn't the slightest idea what he would do with himself if she said no.
T
he half smile that melted him returned to her full lips. "Good gracious me, and how many ladies have you taken through the maze, Lord Asakinn?"
Her voice was warm, teasing. Pedric felt the cold dread seep away and he replied, "Oh, dozens, Milady Vandaris. But most of them have left me to find my own way out."
Something softened on her face, and when Lorinda spoke her voice was low and throaty with emotion. "I would never abandon you to find your own way out of such a tangle, Pedric." Her hand slipped into his, feather-light, warm.
Something crashed over Pedric with all the force of a hurricane wave. He began to tremble, felt the blood rush to his face, hands, and elsewhere. It was desire, certainly, but with a tenderness to its edge that he'd never felt before. The room suddenly seemed a whirlwind of humanity, a crowded jungle of people when all he wanted, craved, needed, was for the world to be reduced to himself and Lorinda.
His own voice betrayed him with a quiver as he replied in what was meant to be a jaunty tone, "Then by all means, my most beautiful Lorinda, let us tackle the maze."
Lorinda's hand was warm, her soft fingers curling trustingly around his. Pedric steered his way through the throng, out the wide, opened doors and into the Garden. The breeze was soft and cool on his blood-heated face, and when they entered the maze, surrounded on almost all sides by the tall, silent, deep-green shrubbery, he almost broke into a run in his eagerness to get Lorinda into the heart of the confusing labyrinth.
Then they were there, in Pedric's favorite spot for romantic liaisons, and he halted. It was harder than he thought to turn and face Lorinda, face the possibility that her blood might not be as inflamed as his, her heart as full and aching with unsatisfied want.
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