Honor Among Thieves (2 page)

There was, however, a sense of purpose underlying the
clutter. Books stood in neat rows. All the bottles and vials and
beakers bore tidy labels. Some of the metal objects appeared to be
small tools, and the high, narrow platform on which she’d slept
seemed more akin to a worktable than a bed.

She’d heard that some humans were like ravens,
filling their nests with a hoard of shiny things for no better
reason than the urge to possess them. Rhendish, she sensed, was not
such a man. Perhaps he would not covet what was hers.

“I had a curved knife,” she said, speaking as
diffidently as she could. “Fashioned of pale metal, with a rose
etched onto the blade. A pretty trifle.”

This was a lie, of course. The weapon was beyond
price, grown from a rare and powerful crystal, and the rose within
it bloomed when fed a traitor’s blood.

“Your sister spoke of it before she died. It would
seem—”

His words were lost in a sound like winter’s cruelest
winds. The room spun in a mad whirl of color and chaos and grief
and the scent of herbs meant to drown pain in oblivion.

“Drink this.”

She pushed away the cup Rhendish held to her lips.
Elves used such herbs when cutting arrows from flesh or tending a
childbirth gone wrong—pain of great intensity but short duration.
Sorrow passed too slowly for such remedies.

“A thousand pardons,” he murmured. “I spoke abruptly
and without proper care. It is no easy thing to hear of a loved
one’s death.”

This was true, but elves accepted death in ways
humans did not. What shocked her to the core was that Asteria would
tell any human about the Thorn.

But then, wasn’t she doing precisely that?

“What did she say?”

“She did not speak the trade tongue as well as you
do, but as I understand it, the knife had some ceremonial
importance. She was most insistent that it be returned to her
people.”

This did not ring true, either. Asteria would bury
the Thorn in her own belly before she’d entrust it to a human.

“It was taken by one of the attackers,” Rhendish
said, almost as if he could read her mind, “and sold before my men
caught up with them.”

He spoke on, but his words could not part the tangled
vines of her thoughts.

The grove defiled, the judgment circle destroyed
before the traitor could be uncovered. The Thorn lost among humans!
She had to recover it, and soon.

No solution came to her. After a time she became
aware that Rhendish stood silent, a wry smile on his face.

“I doubt you heard one word in ten. Here it is in
brief: I have determined the knife’s whereabouts and conceived of a
way that you might retrieve it.”

She regarded him for a long moment. “Why would you do
this?”

“I won’t try to convince you of my altruism,” he said
with dry humor. “The answer to your question is complicated, but it
begins with this: Seven adepts rule this city—
seven
, because
no single man can be trusted with too much power, and
adepts
, because no man can be trusted with magic.”

She began to see the path ahead. “You have men at
your command. The other adepts must also. You think one of them
sent gatherers to steal elven magic.”

A burst of startled laughter escaped him.
“
That
far I had not gone! I suppose it is possible, but more
likely Muldonny’s agents merely purchased the dagger after the
fact.” His gaze sharpened. “Why? What magic does the dagger
hold?”

She lifted one shoulder in the dismissive gesture
she’d seen humans use. “I spoke of intent, not result. The dagger
is finely crafted and very old, but that is all.”

“I suspected as much,” he said with satisfaction.
“Muldonny fancies himself an expert on elven matters, but I’ve long
suspected that any genuine knowledge he possesses could be
painlessly inscribed on his thumbnail.”

“So you suggest I trade ‘genuine knowledge’ for
it?”

“No! Muldonny is . . .”

He paused, considered.

“Persistent,” he said, in the manner of one who has
considered every word that dwelt within the realm of truth, only to
choose the palest and weakest. “Muldonny would not be content with
small bits of history and lore. In fact, it would be best if he did
not learn of your presence in Sevrin. Elves, you see, do not
officially exist.”

“Nor do our handiworks, I suppose.”

He spread his hands, palms up. “You begin to see the
problem. No one denies the existence of elf-crafted items, but it
is widely supposed that any artifact of the old races must hold
ancient and dangerous magic.”

“If such magic is bad, why would any adept want to
possess it?”

“Why indeed?” he said darkly. “That is an important
question. It is not, however, a question that can roam free among
the general populace.”

“So you are protecting this adept, even though you
suspect him of doing wrong.”

“I am protecting Sevrin,” he snapped. “The Council of
adepts stands between the city and any who might use sorcery
against it. Can you imagine what might follow if the people
believed one of the adepts was smuggling weasels into the henhouse?
Muldonny cannot be accused. Your elven trinket must be acquired
unofficially.”

“Stolen.”

A smile flicked the corners of his lips. “Yes,
stolen. I know of a thief who’s elusive enough to handle the job
and foolish enough to take it on. For reasons that will soon become
clear, he must hear of your need from your lips.”

She noted the twitch of chagrin on the adept’s face
as he spoke of this thief and began to understand.

“I get the knife, you get the thief.”

Rhendish bowed. “Succinctly put.”

“And if I refuse to betray a man who would do this
simply because I ask it of him?”

“I don’t believe you will,” he said hesitantly, “but
that is a question we both need to answer.”

He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers. One of
the window hangings slid open. The clockwork servant emerged from
the curtained alcove and clanked toward her, leaving the curtain
pushed to one side.

The hideous thing approached unheeded, for she could
not tear her gaze from the windows lining the curving wall of the
alcove, and the late summer garden beyond.

This could not be. The judgment circle had gathered
on Midwinter Night. How could season after season slip away
unnoticed?

And what was wrong with her, that she retained her
winter colors?

“Take the meadow sprite in your hand,” Rhendish
said.

His voice broke the spell. She dragged her attention
to the small metal cage the servant thrust toward her. Inside a
tiny winged creature cowered, its blue and yellow wings
trembling.

The silver-grey cloak that could make the sprite
appear to be a simple butterfly had been torn away, revealing a
slender, winged maiden no taller than a child’s thumbnail.

The elf looked at Rhendish with horror in her eyes.
He nodded.

Before she could tell him that she would sooner die
than do this thing, her hand stretched out and unlatched the cage
door.

Traitorous fingers reached for the sprite.

Tightened.

And came away dusted with blue and gold.

For a long moment she gazed at the tiny, crumpled
body of the fey thing she’d been forced to kill. Cold, murderous
rage filled her heart. No words came to her, but she lifted her
gaze and let Rhendish read what was there to see.

The adept winced, but held his ground. “We both
needed to know, beyond question, that you will do what must be done
to further both our causes.

“Come now,” he said when she made no reply. “I
understand this is strange to you, but surely your devotion to your
people is large enough to house all necessity. We can work together
for mutual benefit, perhaps in time become friends. Can we not
begin now? With your name, perhaps?”

Whatever Rhendish’s opinion of magic might be, surely
he must know that names held power. She dared not yield more
control than he’d already taken from her.

To her relief, the strange compulsion that enslaved
her hand could not reach into her thoughts or command her tongue.
She could defy him in this, if nothing else.

“Honor,” she said, naming the one thing she was
determined to retain.

He lifted one wheat-colored brow. “An unusual
name.”

“Honoria, if you prefer formality,” she said evenly.
Since a clan name was expected, she embroidered the lie with,
“Honoria Evenstar.”

The adept bowed. “Delighted to make your
acquaintance. I will have servants bring food and water. You will
need your strength for the fox hunt.”

He took the clockwork servant and the meadow sprite’s
cage with him, leaving the newly named Honor alone with her grief
and rage and a thousand clamoring questions.

She knew she should plan for the task ahead and
puzzle out what had been done to her since the night she was stolen
from the forest. But try as she might, she could not move past a
single troubling thought:

What else did Asteria, her sister and her queen, tell
the humans?

In the city of Sevrin, people saw gatherers too
frequently to pay them much heed. No one spared more than a glance
to the man sauntering through the long shadows of Rhendish Manor.
And why should they, when a single glance sufficed to read his
nature and purpose?

He wore a cutlass on his belt and affected the smirk
and swagger of a man who knew its use. Pirate gold winked from one
ear. A blue-and-white striped bandanna covered his hair. Perhaps
his appearance sounded a few discordant notes—his bright green
tunic quarreled with the red lining of his cloak—but the overall
effect sang in tune with Sevrin’s expectations.

A less cautious observer might have noted that the
gatherer’s fine wool breeches had been cut to a taller man’s
measure. Discerning eyes might have perceived the gatherer’s
sun-weathered face was several shades darker than his ungloved
hands. Further study might reveal that he was several years younger
than he strove to appear.

But anyone who might be inclined to take a second
glance had more interesting things to observe.

They would see the slim, dark-eyed girl wearing a
servant’s hooded shawl and following at a proper half-pace behind
the Gatherer. They would see the well-filled sack slung over her
shoulder and wonder what grim trophies and foreign oddities it
might contain.

They would
not
see Fox Winterborn, a street
thief who was still two seasons short of his twentieth-first
year.

Fox had no reason to love the adepts who ruled
Sevrin. The banishment of magic weighed heavily on him, but its
official absence made people less inclined to question what their
eyes told them. Fox saw no reason why he should not take advantage
of this.

He and his companion turned a corner into a grassy
square organized around a fountain pool, over which presided a
small marble dragon. As they passed the fountain, the apparent
maidservant tossed a small gold coin into the dragon’s open
mouth.

Clockwork whirred softly behind empty stone eyes.
Clouds of fine mist burst from the statue’s nostrils. The girl
stopped and lifted her face to the cooling spray.

Several small children rushed over to dance and
shriek in the water while mothers or nurses looked on with
indulgent smiles. One of the children, a sharp-eyed ferret of a
girl, leaned over the pool’s wall and stretched her hand out to
explore the dragon’s mouth. She snatched her empty hand out of the
water and turned to regard the hooded servant.

The maidservant sent the child a wink as she slipped
the coin back into her pocket.

In response, the child fisted a small, grubby hand
and held it up to display the bent-nail ring on one finger.

“Cold iron,” she said in a tone full of puppy-growl
menace. “Away, foul sprite!”

Fox caught his companion’s arm and hurried her away.
“Vishni, what did I tell you about spending fairy gold?”

The girl lifted one dark eyebrow.
“‘
Don’t?’
”

He let out a huff that mingled amusement with
exasperation. “I’m serious. No one pays much attention to a child’s
stories, but the less we’re noticed, the better.”

“Not the advice I’d expect from someone who’s tarted
up like Captain Pegleg’s parrot.”

“People see the plumage, not the bird.”

The implication of his words struck him like a
dwarf’s fist and stopped him midstride.

Vishni grinned. “Having visions of fairy wings, are
we? Big, gaudy wings? Maybe a nice bright shade of orange, since
that’s the only color you don’t seem to be wearing.”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Why not? By your own reasoning, wings would distract
people and keep them from looking at my face.”

“A full-scale invasion of flying monkeys would be
insufficient to that purpose,” he said. “Now, for the love of a
thousand tiny gods, pull up your hood.”

The girl blinked. A small, pleased smile curved her
lips as she arranged the folds of her shawl around her face.

They left the square and headed in silence down Twin
Gate Way, a broad street lined with shops and ending in a pair of
high, gated arches. Both gates stood open, and several uniformed
guards monitored the flow of traffic into the walled district.

The sprawling complex known as Rhendish Manor crowned
Sevrin’s tallest hill. The hill itself had come to be called
Crystal Mountain, not because of any mineral deposits it might
contain, but to reflect the particular obsession of its arcane
lord.

Beyond the right-hand gate a long road wound uphill
past the workshops of artisans who crafted bits and pieces for the
adept’s creations. A short line of carts and carriages awaited
inspection. Crafters came and went on foot. People bound directly
for the manor, however, gathered at the left gate to ride the Mule,
a wonder of ropes and pulleys and clockwork machinery that lifted
passenger carriages up over the steep rock of the mountain’s north
wall.