The Lyre Thief

by Jennifer Fallon

  “That I’m long lived? I would have thought the answer was self-evident.”

  The Medalonian smiled. “I mean how do you know you’re not immortal? Didn’t you already die once?”

  “I almost died,” he said. “Which is quite a different thing. But you didn’t risk your very life walking the Thieves’ Quarter in a bright red Defenders uniform to ask me if I’m immortal.”

  Fletcher took the offered seat as Wrayan resumed his chair, nodding. “Did Lady Kalan tell you anything?”

  “Just that you were asking about something called the Covenant?”

  “Have you heard of it?”

  “Not until Kalan brought it up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What reason would I have to lie?”

  The captain shrugged. “I’m not sure. The only thing I know for certain is that when we asked the Harshini queen if this Covenant was important, she said it was more important than we could possibly imagine. Fair to assume, then, that someone who lived with the Harshini in Sanctuary for a couple of years might know something about why it’s so important.”

  “What does the Collective librarian say?” Wrayan asked, genuinely puzzled by Caden Fletcher’s questions. He never a heard a word uttered about any covenant when he was in Sanctuary. Of course, he was a guest there, and hardly privy to all the Harshini’s secrets, but still, it was reasonable to assume he might have heard of something so important, even in passing.

  “The same as you. Never heard of it. He claims the Harshini cleaned out their library of anything that might be used against them before they went into hiding in Sanctuary and that what useful stuff was left, Brakandaran removed after you had your . . . accident.”

  “What happened to me was no accident,” Wrayan, with a faint grimace at the memory of that painful—and nearly fatal—encounter with Alija Eaglespike almost forty years ago. “But he has the right of it. Brak made sure there was nothing left that might endanger the Harshini.”

  “Did the Halfbreed never mention the Covenant?”

  Wrayan shook his head. “Not at all. Did Shananara say anything else?”

  “Nothing useful. She did seem upset, though.”

  “How could you even tell?”

  “Exactly,” Cade said. “The fact that the Harshini queen was visibly upset might give you some idea of how much the loss of Gimlorie’s token—and this Covenant it seems to be connected to—means to her people.”

  “What was it that was stolen, exactly?”

  “A tiny golden lyre. A trinket, really, and certainly easy enough to smuggle out of the Citadel.”

  “I can speak to my people,” Wrayan offered with a shrug. “In case someone tries to fence it. But if it was solid gold, it may have been melted down already.”

  “The Lord Defender suggested that possibility to the queen,” Cade told him. “She was adamant no human had the power to harm it, nor do anything to it at all.”

  “Other than steal it,” Wrayan reminded him.

  Fletcher nodded. “Other than that.”

  Wrayan rose to his feet, not sure what else he could do for the Medalonian. “Well, I’ll get my people onto it and see if we can find it for you. If this golden lyre has made it to Greenharbour and someone is hoping to profit from it, sooner or later it will come to my attention.”

  The captain stood and offered Wrayan his hand. “Thank you. Lord Tenragan said you would help.”

  “Did he? I’m not sure why. He hardly knows me.”

  “I believe the High Prince vouched for you, too.”

  That made sense. Wrayan had known Damin Wolfblade all his life. “You can assure the Lord Defender the Hythrun Thieves’ Guild will do what they can to retrieve the Harshini’s stolen property and return it to its rightful owners.”

  He rose to his feet and offered the Medalon captain his hand. Fletcher accepted the handshake, but he wasn’t done yet. “The Lord Defender had another question for you, Master Lightfinger.”

  “I’ll answer if I can.”

  “About the demon child.”

  “You’re asking if I know where she is.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Lord Tenragan seemed to think you had ways of communicating with . . . other immortal creatures who might know how to find her.”

  “You mean he wants me to ask the demons?”

  “Lord Tenragan wasn’t specific.”

  Wrayan smiled at that. “Ah, how difficult it must be for an atheist living in a world populated by gods and immortal beings.”

  The captain smiled back, as if he were quite aware of the absurdity of his situation. “Nonetheless, can you ask them?”

  “I can and I have, Captain, on more than one occasion. I’m sure you appreciate that when given a choice over whom they wish to please—the indescribably powerful only child of their beloved King Lorandranek or a mostly human Hythrun thief who just happens to have enough Harshini blood in him to wield a little magic—they’re going to pick R’shiel every time.”

  “Do you have any clue as to where she might be?”

  “No. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say she’s out there somewhere, looking for Brak.”

  “The Halfbreed? But he’s been dead for a decade or more.”

  “R’shiel is likely to consider that merely a minor inconvenience.”

  “So where do I find her?”

  He shrugged. “If I knew I’d be going after her myself, to find out why Damin is still unconscious.” He really had no answers for this young man. “I have no idea what she’s up to or where she’s doing it. But if she’s determined enough, she could well be fighting her way through the Seven Hells to find him, even as we speak. I wouldn’t pin my hopes on solving this mystery about the stolen lyre on R’shiel appearing in the nick of time to save the day, because even if she did come back, there are other people here who need her more than you do.”

  ONCE THE MEDALONIAN captain had left, Wrayan sat down, leaned back in his chair, placed his booted feet on the desk, and closed his eyes. He didn’t waste any time wondering where R’shiel might be. She would return in her own good time. He was more interested in trying to recall if he had ever heard anything about a covenant when he was in Sanctuary.

  It seemed odd that he hadn’t heard something about it, if it was so important. At the very least, the Harshini never lacked for an excuse to celebrate. They had a festival to honor every god in the pantheon. There was no Festival of the Covenant. Not in the two years Wrayan had spent with them. Nobody had breathed a word about a covenant. Not even the Halfbreed.

  “You’re not going to keep that promise, are you?”

  Wrayan opened his eyes to find a young lad standing on the other side of his desk. Fair, tousle-haired, and almost glowing with power, he was dressed in a motley selection of cast-off clothes, although he seemed a little taller, a little better dressed, than Wrayan remembered.

  “Divine One. To what do I owe this singular honor?”

  The God of Thieves glared at him. “Are you being sarcastic? I’m never sure what sarcastic sounds like, but that might be it.”

  Wrayan lowered his feet from the desk and sat up straighter in his chair. He should know better than to mock his god. “Of course not, Divine One. I am genuinely honored you have come to visit me. I can’t remember the last time you honored me with your presence. Certainly not when I asked for your help a few days ago when I needed help interrogating the man who tried to assassinate the High Prince.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Dace didn’t even comment on the attack, which was suspicious. At the very least, Damin Wolfblade was a favorite of Zegarnald, the God of War, a god Dacendaran spent an inordinate amount of time trying to best. To hear the protégé of his nemesis was lying at Death’s door should have evoked some reaction in the God of Thieves, even if it was only to gloat.

  “You haven’t been stealing Harshini artifacts from the Citadel, perchance?” Wrayan suggested, wondering if that was why the God of Thieves was not interes
ted in what had happened to Damin Wolfblade. A theft of something truly valuable to the Harshini would empower him more than any other act of honoring.

  Little wonder he didn’t want Wrayan to help the Medalonians retrieve it.

  “I didn’t steal the lyre,” Dacendaran said. “Nor did any of my followers.”

  “Doesn’t the mere act of stealing something make the thief one of yours?”

  “Not in this case.”

  “So you know who stole it, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “And it’s important?”

  “More than you could possibly imagine.”

  Wrayan studied the god for a moment and realized he wasn’t imagining things. Dace was all but pulsing with the power this theft had bestowed upon him. “Why don’t you want me to find it?”

  “Because you will weaken me if you return it.”

  Wrayan watched his god closely, not sure how Dacendaran’s newfound power had changed him. Whatever it had done to him, it probably didn’t auger well for the mere mortal sitting on the other side of the desk, appearing disrespectful. “The Harshini want it back, Divine One.”

  “The Harshini want world peace, too. That’s never stopped Zegarnald stirring up a war every time the opportunity arises for a bit of mischief.”

  “What do you want me to do about it, then?”

  “Nothing,” Dacendaran said. “Don’t look for the lyre. Don’t ask about it. It’s stolen and it’s better for everyone if it stays that way. Besides, the lyre protects itself. You won’t find it by looking for it.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s the truth. Was that all you wanted?”

  Wrayan nodded—there was really nothing much else he could ask. “Oh . . . what about the Covenant?”

  “The Covenant is between the Harshini and the gods. It has nothing to do with mortals. You need to leave that alone, too.”

  “Do you know where the demon child is?” Perhaps, if Dacendaran weren’t willing to help recover the lyre, he’d help them locate R’shiel. It was her deal with Death, apparently, that had placed Damin in the magical coma currently holding the High Prince in thrall.

  But Dacendaran simply shrugged. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really? Can’t you sense her? Can’t you feel her presence from across a continent?”

  “Usually.”

  Gods, Wrayan thought. This is like pulling teeth. “Why usually? Can’t you feel her now?”

  “No.”

  Chilled by the thought R’shiel might have already lost her wager with Death and that Damin was doomed, he asked, “Is she dead?”

  Dacendaran shook his head. “I doubt it. We’d all feel that. It’s like she’s just . . . faded away.”

  Before Wrayan could ask what that meant, someone knocked on the door. Dace vanished before he had a chance to tell whoever was outside the door to go away.

  His visitor didn’t wait for permission in any case. The door opened and Willos, the large doorman who stood guard at the entrance to the Thieves’ Guild headquarters, opened the door a crack and stuck his head through the gap.

  “What?”

  “That Medalonian lad that was just here.”

  “What about him?”

  “Some thugs have set upon him at the end of the street.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He seems to be giving a good account of himself.”

  Wrayan shook his head and cursed softly under his breath. “Why don’t you go and help him out?”

  “That’s what I came to ask, boss. Is it all right for me to—”

  “Of course it is, you fool. Go! Help him. Preferably before someone kills him!”

  “Serves him right for wearing that ridiculous uniform around the Thieves’ Quarter,” Willos muttered as he closed the door.

  Damn fool Defenders, Wrayan thought. They supposed that wretched uniform of theirs made them impervious to harm. Here in Greenharbour it was liable to have quite the opposite effect.

  Still, Caden Fletcher wasn’t his problem right now.

  He glanced around the office, but Dacendaran had not reappeared, and didn’t answer when he called to him.

  Wrayan leaned back in his chair again, puzzling over the problem he now faced—not the problem of explaining how the envoy of a foreign government came to be beaten up in the streets of the Thieves’ Quarter, but how he was going to find out about this mysterious Covenant and locate the Harshini’s stolen lyre without the God of Thieves discovering what he was up to.

  And what in all the Seven Hells had the God of Thieves meant when he said the demon child had just faded away?

  Chapter

  31

  THE DAY AFTER Charisee’s encounter with Lord Erlon, she woke to find he’d left Warrinhaven, and hardly anybody remembered him being there. By the following day, it seemed nobody could recall him, and by the day after, it was as if he had never been to Warrinhaven at all. Charisee was the only one who remembered the visit of the God of Liars.

  Now she was left with the dilemma of what to do about his advice.

  The God of Liars told her to make the most of her deception. Only he would say something like that.

  The God of Liars and Rakaia, she reminded herself, as she headed off toward the horse paddocks, Broos padding faithfully along beside her. Kiam was in a meeting with a guild courier who’d arrived in the early hours of the morning with a message for him. Lady Saneyah and Lord Rahan were busy with family matters, which left only Broos to keep her company. Not that she minded. The dog was the safest companion she knew.

  He could be trusted, at the very least, not to repeat anything Charisee told him.

  The grass was damp and lush with the onset of spring, and spongy underfoot as she headed away from the house down to the paddocks where the foals were kept with their mothers. Charisee had never seen a real, live foal. She’d grown up in a walled harem, learned to ride on a bridle path on her sister’s horse that was brought into the harem stables, broken and ready to be ridden. The horse breeding, the foals, and even the stallions were kept far away from the harem in the king’s stables—a place no resident of the harem ever had the opportunity to visit.

  But here in Warrinhaven, surrounded by Lord Rahan’s extensive horse stud, it was spring and there were foals everywhere one looked. Until this morning, Charisee had only seen them from a distance. With nobody interested in entertaining her or even checking on her whereabouts, she decided to take the opportunity for a closer look.

  Although Broos seemed obedient enough, she wasn’t sure enough of his reaction to being close to a foal—a creature not much larger than he was—so she tied one of her scarves around his neck and held him on a loose lead as they walked. Although he’d objected a little when she first tied it on, he seemed accepting of it now, and plodded along quite happily beside her as they headed down between the whitewashed paling fences separating the various paddocks.

  At the very least, Charisee wanted to get away from the house. She needed to clear her head. Jakerlon’s words about embracing her circumstances still rang in her ears, and had kept her awake at night ever since he’d spoken to her.

  Honor me every day by being glad you’re living this lie, he said.

  What she was doing didn’t seem nearly so bad when she thought about it like that. And Jakerlon was right. There was no point in pretending to be Rakaia if she was going to agonize over it every single day, worrying herself into an early grave over the right of it. The deed was done and she could either embrace the opportunity and learn to enjoy it, or confess now and put an end to the charade once and for all.

  It seemed a simple choice until she recalled Jakerlon’s prediction about what awaited her when she reached Greenharbour.

  If you’re going to see this through, my pet, you’ll want a pleasant picture in your mind to concentrate on when the lecher is having his way with you.

  In truth, she realized now, she hadn’t thought
that far ahead, perhaps because she was unconsciously expecting to be exposed at any minute. Somehow, the idea she could keep up the charade long enough to actually make it to Rakaia’s wedding hadn’t really occurred to her. When she’d walked into dinner with Kiam and Valorian Lionsclaw in Winternest, pretending she was Rakaia, she certainly hadn’t thought past wondering what it was really like to be her sister.

  “Is my life really going to be so awful if I marry Lord Branador?” she asked Broos.

  The dog looked up at her, tongue hanging out as he walked beside her, but offered no opinion on the subject.

  “Am I really going to let some disgusting old man use my body for his pleasure, just so other people will treat me like I’m special?”

  When she said it out loud like that, Charisee realized she’d almost be better off as a slave. At least slaves knew their jobs. She wasn’t a court’esa, so she’d never been expected to provide sexual favors for her mistress, the king, or anybody else in his employ. The harem where she’d spent her entire life was staffed almost exclusively with eunuchs or loronged court’esa—male slaves who had survived drinking the vile poison loronge, which guaranteed they were sterile.

  She hadn’t been trained, like Rakaia was, in the arts of pleasing a man, which also included lessons—so her sister had assured her—in how to divert unwanted attention. Charisee knew only what Rakaia had chosen to share with her after her sessions with her own court’esa.

  Until Jakerlon had pointed it out to her, it had not occurred to Charisee that she lacked the single most significant skill for which the king of Fardohnya’s daughters were renowned.

  Still fretting about how she was going to get away with pretending she knew anything about pleasing a man on her wedding night, Charisee passed a work gang of slaves, who looked at her oddly as she absently waved to them.

  Fool, she told herself, when she realized why they did not return her greeting. Not only did she lack the training to please a lover, but she should know better than to wave to a slave gang fixing the fences.

  A princess would have looked straight past them as if she hadn’t seen them at all.

  That was another problem she was having: it was proving much harder to act like an arrogant member of the ruling class than she’d imagined.