Honor Among Thieves (7 page)

There were so many of them, striding here and there
with great purpose. A few, like Honor, took a more leisurely pace,
enjoying the gift of a fine summer day.

Several days had passed since Honor’s “rescue”
outside of Rhendish Manor. Plans to recover the Thorn moved
steadily forward; in fact, things were going so well that Honor was
starting to believe that her quest might come to a successful
close. Her life would never be the same, but on a day such as this,
with the summer sun warm on her face and an early morning rain
still scenting the air, the forest did not seem so very far
away.

Fox and his companions thought she was spending the
afternoon in the den, studying maps of Stormwall Island and reading
histories of Muldonny’s role in the overthrow of the sorcerer
Eldreath. The thief and his friends would not approve of her
wandering about the city on her own.

Honor didn’t begrudge them this attitude. It was,
after all, her business that absorbed their full attention. But
she’d spent almost every hour since her awakening below ground; in
fact, she so seldom left the tunnels that no hint of the Greening
had touched her skin and hair. She was still nearly as pale as the
Carmot dwarves who lived deep beneath the city.

The small colony of dwarves who worked the tunnels
below the Fox Den supported Honor’s suspicions about Delgar. He was
opening the old passages, preparing the way for more dwarves to
follow. She’d seen enough of Sevrin to know the adepts could not
permit this to happen.

Her people did not support the idea of overthrowing
Sevrin’s human rulers. That might change now that an adept’s men
had found the Starsingers Grove, but elves were slow to embrace
change.

Too slow, in Honor’s opinion.

For the first time, she began to understand why
Delgar had thrown his lot in with a pair of humans and an impetuous
fairy. There were times when things had to be done
now
.
Humans understood that necessity, and fairies had little concept of
anything
other
than “now.”

Still, working with humans was risky. Honor had
noticed Fox’s regard shifting to dangerous territory over the last
few days. He’d been a child when she pulled him from the river. He
was now a young man, and to human eyes she appeared to be a young
woman. And judging from the company he kept, Fox was drawn to the
old magic and the people who embodied it.

Honor had not been the only one to notice Fox’s
attentiveness. She often sensed Vishni’s gaze following her, and
she noted the calculating gleam in the fairy’s dark eyes. A jealous
fairy could present a dangerous complication.

Avidan, on the other hand, was largely oblivious to
Honor’s presence. The fey-touched alchemist had embraced his role
as a visiting alchemist and spent most of his time working with
vials of foul-smelling liquids. Honor had little doubt that when an
opportunity finally arose, he could hold his own in conversation
with Muldonny.

Each member of the Fox Den had a reason for helping
Honor, but Delgar was the only one who understood the importance of
her quest.

And that was another problem.

Most Carmot dwarves believed their affinity for
carmite gave them an innate and sacred right to possess it. Delgar
might say otherwise, but he had not yet heard the Thorn’s song. The
call of like to like might well prove too powerful to resist. Honor
had resigned herself to the possibility that she might have to
fight Delgar for possession of the Thorn before this was over.

A street urchin bumped into her. Honor immediately
slapped one hand over her coin purse and spun to face a second boy.
His jaunty pace never faltered, but she caught a glimpse of the
small crescent knife he quickly palmed.

Fox had warned her about this basic cut-purse ploy
when he’d tied the coin purse to her belt. Everyone in Sevrin
carried one, he claimed, even if they held a few flat stones rather
than coins. It was not prudent to be seen without one. There were
no indigent people in Sevrin, just as there was no crime and no
magic.

And for that matter, no elves.

Suddenly Honor’s determination to take a solitary
walk struck her as self-indulgent and dangerous. The adepts had
defined an ideal Sevrin, and they maintained that appearance by
rigorously pruning away anything which did not conform to the
desired shape.

A strange hum, like the burn of muscles forced to
hold still for too long, began to spread through Honor’s limbs. Her
feet went numb. Icy torpor crept up her legs until she could
neither feel nor command them.

She expected to stumble and fall, but she did not.
Without will or intent, she turned down a paved street that ended
in an imposing white stone building.

For one panic-filled moment, she considered seizing
the iron fence and hanging on until the compulsion stopped. But
that would draw attention she could not afford.

So she walked to the building and climbed the broad
white stairs. Runes on a large wood sign over the door indicated
that this was the Sevrin Library. The carved image of books and
scrolls embellished the sign for no reason Honor could perceive,
except perhaps to keep the illiterate from wandering into the
building by mistake. Another time, she might have chosen to explore
what humans considered important enough to commit to page and
parchment.

But she could not choose.

A profound sense of helplessness and violation washed
over her. This compulsion, this utter loss of control, was far
worse than the terror of awakening in Rhendish’s lair.

She walked past shelf after shelf of books in a room
nearly as large as a forest clearing. To her ears, each quiet step
sounded like a soft, dry sob.

Her traitorous feet took her to a row of doors at the
back of the library, then to the door at the very end of the row.
She pushed it open and was not at all surprised to see Rhendish
sitting at a small polished table.

He gestured to the second chair. Bitterness rose in
Honor’s throat like bile as she took the seat.

“I suppose you want me to take you to the thieves’
den now.”

The adept’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “Have you
retrieved the dagger so soon?”

She shook her head.

“Then our original agreement stands. Once you have
reclaimed your property, I will require your assistance in locating
the Fox’s lair.”

“Why are you so interested in him?”

He tsked gently. “I did not demand to know what value
your dagger held for you. Is it not enough that he leads a band of
thieves who can disappear into the shadows like roaches?”

“You captured the dwarf without my assistance.”

“The opportunity arose. And you must admit that he
made admirable bait.”

“You could have taken Fox when he came to rescue his
friend.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “That would have given me two of
the thieves, but no guarantee that they would reveal the location
of their den or the secret to their way of moving about the city.
You will provide that, in due time. I assume they trust you? They
are helping you in your quest?”

“They are helping.”

Rhendish leaned forward, concern shadowing his
forest-hued eyes. “But they don’t trust you. Have you given them
reason to suspect you are working with me?”

“Apart from meeting with you in a public place in the
middle of the day?”

“A valid point,” he said in a dry tone. “You may want
to peruse a volume or two to explain your interest in the library,
if you’re called upon to do so. But I cannot stress too strongly
the importance of keeping our alliance secret. It could mean your
life.”

“It is late in the game for threats,” she said.

“I wasn’t threatening you. To the contrary! My only
desire is to ensure that you fully understand your situation.”

He tapped on the one of the walls. The door opened. A
man with a long blond beard and a chest as broad as an elk’s filled
the doorway.

The adept motioned the big man inside. “This is
Volgo, the captain of my personal guard. He led the expedition into
the forest. Ask him what you will.”

This, Honor had not expected. She took a moment to
put her thoughts in order.

“Rhendish said you were pursuing a band of Gatherers.
Why?”

The captain blinked. “Those were my orders.”

Honor turned to Rhendish.

“These men had sold several elven artifacts to people
in Sevrin who collect curiosities. I have purchased one or two from
them, myself,” Rhendish said. “But over time, the sheer number of
items they collected suggested a more, shall we say,
active
means of acquisition?”

“You thought they might be raiding elven
villages.”

“It seemed a possibility worth investigating,”
Rhendish said.

“Why do you care? Would too many elven handiworks
weaken your claim that the Old Races and their magic are gone?”

“It might,” the adept said coolly. “Especially if the
elves marched in force to retrieve these items and seek reprisals
for the raids.”

The unexpected candor of this remark brought a wry
smile to Honor’s face. Rhendish did not want trouble with the
elves. If she learned nothing else from this odd meeting, that was
information worth knowing.

She turned back to the captain.

“Did you speak to my sister?”

The big man hesitated. “As to that, I can give no
guarantee. The elf said she was your sister.”

“She looked like me?”

“She might have, at one time. You were both badly
wounded. Under the circumstances, a resemblance would be difficult
to determine.”

“Describe her.”

The man’s gaze grew unfocused as it shifted to the
contemplation of memory. “White hair, streaked with brown and gray
like the bark of a birch tree. Pale skin. Light eyes. She was about
your size. If she was human, I’d say she’d lived no more than
five-and-twenty years. But that could describe nearly all the
females in the clearing.”

“Everyone there was dressed in dark blue,” she
said.

“Nearly everyone,” he said. “The elf who claimed
kinship to you wore a white gown and a mantle of some sort of white
fur.”

Honor’s throat tightened. She did not recall the
details of that night and retained no image of her sister’s part in
it, but Volgo’s description matched the sort of gown Asteria would
have worn to a winter tribunal.

“What did she say to you?”

“She spoke to one of my men at first. He called me
over when she demanded to speak to the ‘warlord.’ There was
something in her manner that prompted obedience.”

This, beyond doubt, was Asteria. “What did she ask of
you?”

“She asked for your life,” the man said. “Her wounds
were mortal. Yours did not appear to be. She asked that you be
tended. You were to return a stolen dagger to your people. She was
most insistent.”

The adept’s pursuit of the Gatherers, the honor shown
the slain elves, the undertaking of Asteria’s quest—all these
things bore evidence to Rhendish’s determination to prevent trouble
between her people and his. Honor found that admirable. As the
queen’s sister and champion, she could do no less. Logic told her
that Rhendish was an ally.

And yet.

Rhendish reached out to touch her hand. He seemed
neither surprised nor offended when she snatched it away.

“Does that suffice?” he asked.

She nodded. The adept dismissed his captain with a
flick of one hand.

When they were alone, Rhendish leaned forward
confidingly. “You don’t need to take the dagger back to the forest,
if you don’t wish to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Her words came out sharper than she intended.
Rhendish lifted both hands in a placating gesture.

“The captain told me certain other things that
painted a rather ominous picture.”

“Such as?”

“There were no weapons in the glen except for a
single long sword. Of course,” he said, “it is possible that any
other weapons were taken as plunder, as was the dagger you seek.
But none of the elves in the glen wore either belt or baldric. The
bodies of a few armed elves were found in the forest nearby, but
none in the clearing. Since it’s obvious that the elves didn’t
gather for battle or hunting, I assume the raiders interrupted a
celebration or ritual of some sort.”

All of these things were undoubtedly true. “So?”

“Except for your sister, all of the elves were
dressed in dark blue. But my men found a single crimson robe. The
presence of a blood-red robe and a single sword strikes me as
somewhat . . . suggestive.”

“You’ve concluded the gathering was to be a trial
followed by an execution.”

He nodded. “And after the trial was interrupted, an
elf in garb befitting a queen or a priestess demanded that you
present yourself and a ceremonial dagger to your surviving clan.
Forgive me if I presume, but it sounds very much like sentence was
already passed—in your sister’s mind, if none other.”

A sound like rushing waters closed over Honor’s head.
As much as she wanted to refute the adept’s words, she could not be
certain that he was wrong. There was much about that night that was
lost to memory. It might have been as he said.

“So when I say that you need not return to the
forest, I’m offering you an alternative. You could stay in Sevrin.
Volgo has faced elven swords before. He’s very eager to add one to
his company.”

“Not every elf is a warrior.”

Rhendish took her sword hand and turned it up,
displaying the row of nearly bone-deep calluses across the top of
her palm and the scar along the pad of her thumb.

His eyes narrowed and he pushed up her sleeve. “You
removed the bracers.”

“They were uncomfortable.”

“To you or to one of the Fox’s band of thieves?” he
asked slyly.

She kept her gaze on his and her face impassive.
“Obviously you’ve never worn armor of any kind.”