The Lyre Thief

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Then how do you explain the magicians the Collective used to produce?”

  “Your wretched Sisters of the Blade tried to exterminate the Harshini mostly because they were too indiscriminate with their sexual favors.”

  Cade didn’t respond to the accusation. Although he’d grown up under the Sisterhood’s rule, he’d never been a supporter of their methods, or the way they ruled Medalon, so he was more than a little hazy about their origins. He’d joined the Defenders just before they were deposed by Tarja, the demon child, and the Harshini, with Damin Wolfblade’s assistance, so he’d never had to spend hours learning the Sisterhood’s history, or memorize the long list of brave Sisters who’d sacrificed themselves for the good of the cause—which was to rid themselves of a magical race who behaved with such unbridled lust. It was quite likely Kalan Hawksword knew more about Medalon’s history during that era than he did.

  “Since they’ve emerged from hiding,” the High Arrion continued, “I gather the Harshini have learned their lesson. I don’t know what it’s like at the Citadel, but we’ve got hundreds of Harshini here in the city now and you hardly ever hear of them getting into even casual relationships with humans.”

  Cade nodded, thinking she was right. He’d not heard of any Harshini in the Citadel taking human lovers. “You mean the likelihood of future human sorcerers is under threat because the Harshini aren’t making babies with humans any longer?”

  “That is the popular theory.”

  “So the Sisterhood, even in defeat, may yet win the war?”

  “Sadly,” Kalan admitted. “But that’s not the reason you’re here, Captain. Nor why Lord Tenragan sent the request for this meeting via mundane channels, rather than using the Seeing Stone and risking the Harshini knowing about us meeting.”

  He nodded, grateful both Tarja and Garet Warner had warned him that even though they considered Damin the best Hythrun High Prince in living memory, the sharpest Wolfblade alive was probably his younger sister, Kalan—and that included Kalan’s mother, the fearsome Princess Marla.

  “You’ve heard about the theft from the Temple of the Gods?”

  “The lyre representing Gimlorie?” She nodded. “Queen Shananara contacted us through the Seeing Stone not long after it happened to see if there had been any effect on the music.”

  “Was there?”

  “If there were, nobody in Greenharbour noticed, although there are plenty of rumors swirling around the city about what the theft means, ranging from nothing to the end of life as we know it. Is there still no hint about who might have taken it?”

  “None.”

  “How long did the loss of music last in the Citadel?”

  “Only until the following morning. That’s bothering Shananara, too, I suspect, although it’s hard to tell what bothers a Harshini.”

  “And you’re certain the Citadel Thieves’ Guild didn’t authorize the theft?”

  Cade shrugged. “They say not, and we’re inclined to believe them. They’ll steal anything that’s not nailed down, normally, but thieves take their god very seriously—even atheist thieves—and I gather Dacendaran is a rather hands-on sort of deity. Unless there is some conflict between the gods going on that we mere mortals know nothing about, there would be no reason for him to countenance such an act.”

  Kalan frowned. “I wouldn’t dismiss a whole war between the gods idea out of hand. Who knows what they’re fighting about among themselves at any given moment? But I’ve not heard anything about the gods being any more antagonistic toward each other than they usually are, either.”

  “And we’re talking the God of Music here,” Cade said. “I mean, what would stealing his icon be trying to prevent? People whistling while they work?”

  The High Arrion seemed amused, but she gave Cade the impression she was listening to him out of politeness, rather than grave concern for what the theft of one tiny golden lyre might mean to the world of men. Perhaps if she’d been there when the music stopped, she’d have a better notion of the trouble this was liable to cause. “What does the Lord Defender really want from me, Captain?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re trivializing this theft, Captain, but you have traveled a very long way to ask a question about it, I suspect.”

  “I came here to personally invite the High Prince to the treaty discussions.”

  “Was there any doubt he wasn’t planning to attend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did Tarja Tenragan really send you all the way to Greenharbour to issue an invitation that could have been handled by a courier? A raven? I’m sure the Harshini would gladly have conveyed the message via the Seeing Stone, had he bothered to ask.”

  “I’m not in the habit of questioning the Lord Defender’s motives, my lady.”

  “Aren’t you? Because I am.” She leaned back in her seat and studied him for a moment. “Why don’t we stop skirting the real reason you’re in Hythria and tell me the truth? Be warned, if you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll have you turned into a toad. I’m the head of the Sorcerers’ Collective. I have people who can do that, you know.”

  He smiled, thinking he really liked Kalan Hawksword. She was everything and more Tarja had warned him about. “The Lord Defender said you would be suspicious.” Along with a few other things it wouldn’t be wise to repeat. Despite her threat, Cade was still hedging, because he still wasn’t sure how much of what he said to the High Arrion would end up dinner conversation at the palace, as Princess Adrina had suggested.

  Kalan seemed to be losing patience. “Of course I’m suspicious. If the Defenders wanted information about the gods and the Thieves’ Guild, you wouldn’t have come to me. You would been sitting opposite Wrayan Lightfinger, questioning him.”

  “I was hoping you could arrange an introduction.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” she offered. “But so would the head of the Citadel Thieves’ Guild. Wrayan is a part-Harshini thief, not a god, and it’s a relatively small part, at that. So I ask again. What do you really want from the Sorcerers’ Collective?”

  “Information.”

  “About . . . ?” she prompted.

  “Something called the Covenant.”

  Kalan frowned, but she looked puzzled, rather than alarmed. “In what context?”

  “The Harshini. The gods.”

  “Why?”

  “When we discovered the theft of the lyre, Queen Shananara was with us. She was frantic—at least as frantic as a Harshini can get. She said something about a Covenant being tied to the lyre.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “That the Covenant gives gods the ability to walk among us. Then she said, It is the Covenant that brought the Harshini into being. When Lord Tenragan asked if that meant the stolen lyre was important, she said it was more important than he could possibly imagine.”

  “If that’s the case, why don’t you ask Shananara to elaborate?”

  “We have . . . at least, the Lord Defender has. She refuses to discuss it.”

  Kalan studied him for a long moment before she replied.

  “Captain, Medalon has a long and bloody history of going about their dealings with the Harshini the wrong way. Coming here, behind the back of the Harshini queen, and asking the Sorcerers’ Collective to give you access to the Harshini archives to satisfy your idle curiosity, is hardly the way to improve that situation.”

  “More than you could possibly imagine,” he repeated. “Her exact words.”

  Kalan pondered the matter for a few more moments and then she sighed and leaned forward to pick up her quill. “I’ll tell the chief archivist to see if he can find anything, but don’t hold your breath. The libraries here are vast and they go back several thousand years, but Brakandaran cleaned them out with the God of Thieves just after the Harshini went into hiding a couple of hundred years ago, so a lot of the really meaty stuff is lost to us forever. In the meantime, I’ll write you an introduction to Wrayan. I fear if you arrive in th
e Thieves’ Quarter in a Defender’s uniform without it, you won’t get out of there in one piece.”

  “I believe the theory behind the Defenders’ red jackets, my lady, is so our enemies can’t see us bleed.”

  Kalan signed the introduction she was writing with a flourish and looked up with a grin. “Well, that also explains the brown trousers, then, I suppose.”

  She held out the introduction. Cade rose to his feet to take it from her, trying to think up a suitably witty and cutting rejoinder, when the young woman who had escorted Cade to Kalan’s office burst in, her face flushed, as if she’d run up every one of those wretched four flights of stairs to get here.

  “You have to come!” the girl announced.

  “Excuse me, Julika, but I told you I was not to be disturbed.” She turned to Cade and smiled apologetically. “My daughter is still adjusting to her new role as an apprentice sorcerer. I fear she’s spent far too many years lording it over her cousins in Elasapine, which seems to have completely robbed her of any manners.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, my lady,” Cade assured her. “I wasn’t—”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, who cares what you think,” Julika snapped. “Mother, you’re needed at the palace. Now.”

  Kalan was obviously appalled by her daughter’s rudeness. Cade was rather more interested in the fact that Kalan had a daughter he’d never heard of. She wasn’t married, as far as he knew, and never had been. Julika didn’t look like her mother at all, which meant she probably favored her father. Cade was very curious about who that might be, but was far too polite to ask.

  “I will answer the High Prince’s summons when I’m—”

  “Uncle Damin didn’t summon you, mother,” Julika told her, impatiently. “Adrina did. And you’d better get there fast, because someone just tried to assassinate the High Prince.”

  Chapter

  20

  “YOU SENT ALARIC a severed head,” Hablet accused through a mouthful of broth, as Naveen arrived in response to his king’s summons. “His mother was quite upset about it.”

  The king sat behind his desk with his foot elevated on a padded stool. Hablet was trying to ease his gout. The physics had suggested a bland diet consisting mostly of chicken broth, rye bread, and cider. Hablet was sticking to his physic’s orders, but reluctantly. The Harshini ambassador, Belendara—who could have healed the king’s pain in a moment with magic—was refusing to help. Her excuse was some nonsense about not interfering in the natural order of things.

  The king’s mood was not pleasant.

  Naveen shrugged. “I thought he might benefit from a lesson in the dangers of acting on a whim, your highness.”

  “His mother doesn’t agree.”

  “Are we paying attention to what your wives agree with now?”

  Hablet shook his head. “Of course not. But I’d stay out of the harem for a while if I were you. Kabar’s brains leaked all over the parquet flooring, I hear. You’re not the most popular person in there at the moment.”

  “Your son is not the most popular person among your generals or your armed forces, your highness,” Naveen reminded him. “Which is rather more problematic.”

  The king sighed and pushed away the broth with a grimace. “Damn physics. They’re trying to kill me with culinary blandness.”

  Naveen was quite sure he wasn’t required to respond to that.

  “Did Kabar say anything incriminating before he died?“

  As usual, Hablet ignored Naveen’s not so veiled criticism of his son. The annoying thing was that Hablet knew Alaric was a spoiled brat, but seemed incapable of doing anything about it. At least openly. The fact that he seemed only mildly annoyed by the severed head was probably a good sign.

  “If you’re asking, was he plotting against you as your son maintains, then the answer is no. To the end, Meyrick Kabar remained a loyal servant of the crown.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s not the question I should be asking, what is?”

  “Perhaps, your highness, you should be asking about the time he spent in Talabar as the Captain of the Harem Guard.”

  Hablet gave him a puzzled look. “That was years . . . decades ago.”

  “Two decades, to be exact,” Naveen agreed. “He departed Talabar for a posting in Bordertown about six months before Princess Sophany gave birth to the Princess Rakaia, whom you so recently betrothed to Lord Frederak Branador, thus securing our clear access to the trade routes from the port at Tarkent through Highcastle Pass into Hythria, in perpetuity.” Naveen thought it important to remind the king of that. Hablet was many things, but he was a dark-hearted merchant prince at his core. He’d happily put aside all thoughts of vengeance and retribution if there was a profit to be had.

  Hablet was silent for a moment as he digested Naveen’s news. “The blue eyes,” he said finally. “Rakaia is a pretty little thing, but I always wondered about those damned blue eyes. Sophany told me it was something in my line. She even had me bring the blue-eyed whore’s bastard . . . what was her name . . . ?”

  “Charisee.”

  “Charisee . . . into the harem as a companion for Rakaia to remind me of it.”

  “A clever deception, as it turns out.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Charisee?”

  “No, of course not, you fool. Rakaia.”

  “Almost to Greenharbour by now, I would think.”

  The king shrugged, tearing a piece off the rye loaf and dipping it in the broth. “Have her killed as soon as she gets there. Execute Sophany while you’re about it.”

  Naveen took a step closer to the desk, clasping his hands together. He took a deep measured breath as the king slurped up his soggy bread. “Your highness, is that really the most effective way of dealing with this . . . most delicate matter?”

  “Delicate matter?” Hablet asked, wiping a drop of broth from his beard. “Gods alive, Naveen! The bitch passed off the get of a common-born soldier as my daughter. That’s not a delicate matter. That’s high treason.”

  “A most regrettable state of affairs, I agree, your highness, but in the small, unworthy hands of that common-born soldier’s get lies the key to Fardohnya’s future economic stability and prosperity.”

  The king frowned. Naveen could almost see the battle going on in his head as he warred between vengeance and profit. “What are you suggesting?” he asked after a time. “That I just ignore this?”

  “Of course not, your highness. That would be unconscionable. But there is no reason to remove Rakaia until after the wedding, surely?”

  Hablet nodded. “That’s true enough. When are they scheduled to marry?”

  “At the end of summer, I believe.”

  “I suppose we could wait until then.”

  “Might I also be so bold as to suggest we spend the coin to have this unfortunate matter taken care of by professionals?”

  “Why would I involve the Assassins’ Guild? They cost a fortune. Besides, they usually don’t take commissions on members of a royal family.”

  “I believe the point here is that Rakaia is not a member of any royal family, your highness. More importantly, the guild can make her death look like an accident and not alert Frederak Branador—or his cousin, the High Prince—to the . . . awkward situation . . . in which we find ourselves.”

  Hablet thought on that for a moment and then nodded. “I suppose. Do you have a plan for Sophany as well?”

  “My advice is to do nothing, your highness, to alert the princess to your knowledge of her affair until Rakaia has been dealt with and the trade routes through Highcastle are secured. You don’t want her warning Rakaia, who, in turn, might alert the Hythrun.”

  “If I have the bitch summarily executed this afternoon,” the king pointed out, “she won’t have time to warn anyone of anything.”

  Naveen could feel his secret escape plan slipping through his fingers. He smiled at the king, hoping Hablet was in too much pain from his gout—or too angry ove
r Sophany’s betrayal—to notice his anxiousness. “Princess Sophany’s unexpected execution, after so recently bestowing your favor on her daughter, would raise questions we do not wish to answer at this time.”

  With some reluctance the king nodded, conceding Naveen’s point. “What do you suggest, then? If I exile her, it will raise the same questions.”

  “Bide your time,” Naveen advised. “Once Rakaia is taken care of, Sophany can be dealt with in a manner befitting her crimes.”

  “You have more patience than me, Naveen.”

  “I live to serve, your highness.”

  The king shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Arrange with the guild to take care of Rakaia. But not until she’s married and we have our own troops stationed at Highcastle. And send a message to the harem. Tell them I wish the Princess Sophany to attend me tonight.”

  Naveen doubted Hablet planned to bed the princess. “Is that wise? You haven’t bedded Princess Sophany in a decade.”

  “Then she is long overdue for a visit, isn’t she?”

  “Sire, if she realizes you know . . .”

  “Oh, Naveen, why do you treat me like I’m the fool? You said it yourself. Sophany is the honored mother of a daughter about to secure our future economic stability and prosperity. Why would I not bestow my attentions on her?”

  Naveen bowed, accepting defeat. Perhaps there was some way to warn Sophany. He wasn’t interested in saving the treacherous and unfaithful princess from a fate she richly deserved, but he had become quite attached to the thought of a safe haven if the king died and his position in the palace became less . . . tenable. “I shall arrange it, your highness. Will that be all?”

  “For now.”

  Naveen turned to leave. He had his hand on the door latch when Hablet said, “I’m thinking of sending him to Medalon, you know. To the Defenders.”

  “Sire?”

  “Alaric,” the king explained. “I know he’s spoiled rotten, Naveen. It’s those damned women in the harem. They’ve let him run riot all his life.”

  As have you, your highness, Naveen was tempted to add.