King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

  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.

  The 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 cle
ar 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 the 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.

  The voice inside him that protested, that mourned the viciousness with which Vandaris defended himself, was small and faint. But it could still be heard.

  And as suddenly as it had come, the senseless rage evaporated, leaving pain in its wake. Whimpering, Vandaris ceased to fight and Pedric scrambled out from beneath him. 'Thanks a lot, Griel," he gasped.

  Griel had the grace to look embarrassed. "Maybe we should explain it to him, rather than forcing it on him. It worked for me. I listened to you."

  "And came after me with a poker before I subdued you," Pedric reminded him. Vandaris heard it all through the pain. "Do you…" he gasped, then tried again. "Can you stop the pain, P-Pedric? Do you know what's going on?"

  "I do," said Pedric urgently. "Braedon has been visited by a curse. Nearly everyone's infected. It saps the strength and causes pain when a person thinks about doing something kind, something good. And it lends energy when one has an evil thought, a thought of violence and cunning. It will wear down your resistance until, in the end, you surrender to it-and then it will probably be the death of you."

  "I would never embrace evil!" cried Vandaris in protest, only to clutch his chest as his heart thudded with a painful unnaturalness.

  'There, you see?" said Pedric. "Just now you were willing to kill us, when you learned you were bound. Didn't it make you feel better when you fought?"

  Vandaris could only stare. Shame flooded him, and hard on the heels of that emotion was pain. "Yes," he confessed. "But how can this curse be stopped?"

  "You must trust us," said Griel. "Pedric here has two doses of the same elixir. The first draft will cause you to become totally, completely evil. A second draft will restore you to your normal state of mind, but you'll be rendered immune to the curse. I didn't believe him at first. Thought it a lot of silly nonsense until it worked on me. Healers didn't use to dabble in herb lore, you know. That was my business. Let them use their skills and me use mine, I say."

  Pedric raised a hand and the older man fell silent. "We can force you, Lord Vandaris," said Pedric. "I don't want to, but I will if I have to."

  Vandaris regarded him steadily, then nodded. Looking relieved, Pedric lifted the older man's head and positioned the uncorked bottle to his lips. "Sit on his heels," he instructed the apothecary. "Goodness, Pedric, I'm an old man!" protested Vandaris.

  "Yes," said Pedric tactlessly, "but I know what this can do to someone. I know what it did to me."

  Reluctantly, the apothecary positioned himself delicately across Vandaris's ankles. "Remember," said Pedric as he tilted the bottle, "two swallows, not just one."

  Vandaris gulped down a mouthful, and with a suddenness that startled Pedric, who ought to have been expecting it, he screamed in fury and struck the youth's hand with his forehead. The bottle tumbled from Pedric's fingers, spilling across Vandaris's black clothing.

  Pedric swore loudly and fumbled for another bottle. His face paled. "That was the last one!"

  Vandaris kicked and the apothecary tumbled back. A second well-placed kick made him curl up in a ball, groaning. Pedric tried to hold him down, but Vandaris would have none of it. He squirmed like a madman, for suddenly the thought of drinking a second dose seemed to him to be the worst punishment some cruel god could inflict on a hapless mortal.

  He barely looked up when the door slammed open, but he heard the shocked cry of Pedric. "Deveren, your hands!"

  Deveren couldn't take the time to explain. He assessed the situation at a glance and sprang forward. His radiant hands reached, not to hurt, but to heal, and he touched Vandaris's broad chest.

  Light flooded from him into the dark corners of Vandaris's corrupted spirit, gently chasing away the demons that lurked as a child might brush away a fluffy bit of milkweed. There was nothing that could harm Deveren when he ventured into the dark places tonight, and it was with real joy that he reached for and grasped Vandaris's evil and shaped it into light.

  Heal. Be warm. Be comforted.

  His strong fingers, glowing with an unearthly radiance, turned sorrow into joy, pain into pleasure. And it gave Deveren joy in the doing as well. He touched something in Vandaris's mind that was still crouching, whimpering, like an injured beast. Tears stung Deveren's eyes as he realized it was the old man's love for his daughter. Deveren longed to touch it, heal that wound as well, but something wise beyond his ken whispered that such was not for him. Vandaris would need to heal himself of that particular pain.

  Gently, reluctantly almost, Deveren withdrew. He rocked back on his heels, as full of energy now as when he had begun. Vandaris gazed up at him.

  The whole encounter had taken only a few seconds.

  "Good gods, what did you do?" whispered Pedric, his eyes glued to Deveren's still-glowing hands.

  "A gift from our Lady Health herself," said Deveren with quiet reverence. "For tonight, I am as she is. I can Heal." His eyes met Pedric's and he smiled. Gently he brushed his fingers across the younger man's furrowed brow, erasing the pain and fear and exhaustion. He moved toward Griel- Rabbit-who only now was beginning to recover from the kick Vandaris had dealt him, and took away his pain as well.

  The three men stared at him, and Deveren began to grow uncomfortable. "It's still me," he said, almost defensively.

  "Are you sure?" quavered Rabbit.

  Deveren rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Last time I looked, it was. Now listen, you three. You are now immune to the curse's effect. Rabbit, go to Vervain. With your
knowledge of herbs, you can probably be a great help to her in creating more of the tincture. Otter, I've got about fourteen more bottles in the pack on Flamedancer. You and Vandaris have to split them. You go and find the rest of our people and make sure they take the doses."

  "But Dev-it's because of them that this damn curse is even here!" protested Pedric.

  Deveren didn't waver. "You weren't part of that. Rabbit isn't part of that. I think you know who we can trust, Pedric. Find them; heal them. When they're cured, send them to the temple of Health. They in turn can distribute the tincture. Vandaris, you need to find Telian Jaranis, the rest of the council-anyone in law enforcement. We need those people on our side. Vervain will be working through the night, making more of the stuff. Any questions?"

  "Yes," said Vandaris, his gray brows drawing together. "Why do you refer to 'our people' and call Griel and Pedric by animal names?"

  Deveren's mouth went dry. "Urn… it's nothing, really. Private nicknames."

  "You don't lie very well, Lord Larath," replied the Head Councilman coolly.

  "It doesn't matter!" Deveren exploded. "Good gods, the world is going mad out there!"

  "You are right," conceded Vandaris. "Now is not the time. But Deveren, I'm starting to put a few things together. We'll have to have a long talk about this when all this chaos is over." "If you and I are alive by dawn," agreed Deveren grimly, "then we'll talk. In the meantime, gentlemen, the people of Braedon need our help."

  The four men hurried out of Rabbit's shop to their various tasks. Deveren paused, pressed a hand to his mount's head. The gelding snorted, suddenly full of energy. Flamedancer would be able to go at full speed for the rest of the night.

  He swung himself into the saddle and glanced around, heartsick. The crowds had been here earlier. Doors were broken. Filth had been written on walls. Most of the shops had been robbed, and sometimes the shopkeepers had not escaped with their lives. The smell of fire was in the air along with the tang of the salt sea, and a dim orange glow in the distance had nothing to do with a setting sun.