King's Man and Thief (10 page)

"Bhakir says eat and get warm," stated the guard, shoving her inside. "Then he'll come talk to you." The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the bolt being thrown.

Jemma stumbled toward the table. Trembling, she forced her aching hands to tear off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly, washing the bite down with a swallow of milk. It wouldn't do to gorge herself. She'd nursed the ill back to health far too often not to know that it was unwise to foist much food on a stomach unused to it. But oh, the bread was soft and fresh, and the glistening blackberries fairly begged to be devoured. She shifted her stool closer to the brazier, and stretched her empty hand toward it. The warmth calmed her joints, and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

She was about halfway through her repast, eating slowly and carefully, when Bhakir entered. Jemma paused, the food suddenly tasting foul in her mouth. The counselor bowed mockingly and smiled, showing even white teeth.

"Good day, my dear Healer. I'm so pleased you could join me."

Jemma finished chewing and swallowed. "If that is true, then your hospitality is lacking, Bhakir," she said drily.

The man laughed heartily and seated himself opposite the Healer. One soft, manicured hand hovered over the plate of half-eaten food and selected a peach. He bit, chewed.

"Delicious," he proclaimed as he swallowed the mouthful. "Now that you've had something to eat, let us proceed to business. I'm sure you're wondering why I've . . . er, brought you here." "It had occurred to me. If you needed Healing work, you would have done better to talk to the present Blesser. I can do some, but—"

"It is not curing I'm after." And just that swiftly the pretense was gone. Jemma stared into the true face of Bhakir, a face that she assumed few seldom saw and fewer still wished to see. The dancing eyes had gone cold and piggish. No smile played about the red mouth, and the soft body suddenly seemed as hard and implacable as a boulder.

"Then ... how may I be of service to my lord?" Jemma asked, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.

"Those who serve the goddess Health know a great many secrets," said Bhakir. "Secrets about healing, and curing, and restoration. Legend even mentions one or two Healers who brought the dead back to life."

Jemma felt a chill that even the warmth of the brazier could not dispel. "Legends are simply that," she said. "No Healer I have ever met could revive the dead. Only Health herself may do that. That is Lady Death's domain. We would not dare trespass there."

"No, no, you misunderstand me. Let the dead rot in peace." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Jemma's. "Those who would heal must first understand what it is to harm. Those who can cure," he said slowly, "know how to curse."

You are mad!
Jemma wanted to shriek, but the horrible truth was that the man was in fact quite sane. He knew what he was asking her to do. Her mouth, suddenly dry, formed voiceless words. At last, she stammered, "I will not."

Bhakir frowned, and Jemma shrank back slightly. "You know how. Healer. It's part of your training."

"We —we are shown these evils to know where not to tread!"
"And I order you, on pain of your life, to obey me! I need a curse, and you
will
give me one!"

Frantically, Jemma shook her head. "Kill me, then! I answer to a higher power, and I swear by she whom I serve that I shall never betray that trust!"

Bhakir's frown mutated into a smile just as cruel. "We'll see, old woman." He rose and tugged the concealing cloths from the walls.

Jemma's heart spasmed in terror. The room was filled with torture devices.

She recognized a few: the rack, the wheel, the cat-o'-nine. Others were foreign to her, but their cold metal and wood promised exquisite pain. Even as protest caught in her throat, the door opened and four guards entered. They moved deliberately but without haste, knowing that struggle as she would, she was incapable of escaping. Strong hands closed on her, ripping the robes from her thin, wrinkled body. The good food crashed to the floor as they slammed Jemma down on the table and secured her with iron bands that had hitherto been cleverly concealed.

"Lord Bhakir!" she cried, writhing against the strong flesh and stronger iron that held her. "Please, lord, what you ask is evil, and you must know it to be so!"

Bhakir had turned his attention to the brazier, and Jemma watched in horror as he extracted a pincer, the ends glowing orange-hot, from the depths of the coals.

"Oh, of course it's evil," he said in a conversational tone. "That's why it's going to work."

A thought pierced Jemma's haze of panicked terror. "My hands!" she screamed, thinking that Bhakir was going to burn her fingers off one by one—one of the more common tortures whispered about by those who were interested in such things. "You can't hurt them—I wouldn't be able to work the magic!"

"I know that," replied Bhakir, a sharp note of irritation creeping into his modulated voice. "I would never hurt your hands, Lady Healer. Or your tongue. Don't worry. But the rest of your body— " and his gaze swept her ancient, bony frame "—is fair game."

Before she realized what was happening, Jemma felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the big toe of her right foot. She jerked reflexively, but her knee banged against encircling metal. One of the guards had laid open her foot, the gash from ball to heel gaping open and dripping blood. With a curious calmness, she realized that the floor was covered with sawdust rather than rushes to make the task of soaking up blood that much simpler.

Then Bhakir cauterized the wound with the pincers, and her calmness fled.

Vervain cried out once, sharply, wordlessly, and the raw sound of her own scream brought her awake. She bolted upright, gasping and clutching the rumpled pillow protectively to her breasts. Her dark eyes flickered wildly, but nothing was amiss in her room.

All was as it should be. The door was closed and bolted. Moonlight, filtered through shutters, cast a pall over the many plants that filled the Blesser's private sleeping chamber. Vervain took a deep breath, the air fragrant with the scents of herbs and flowers, and calmed herself.

Though she now realized that her fear had come from a dream rather than an actual threat, she did not dismiss the nightmare as others might have. Vervain knew better than that. The Healer who had trained her had taught her to respect her dreams.

"They are the messengers of the night," old Jemma had told her, back when Vervain was just a Tender studying in Mhar. "When you are awake, you trust your five senses for information. And when you sleep, you must trust your dreams in the same way. Pay attention to them!"

Vervain had been lucky to serve under Jemma. Her mother, a Healer herself, had been born in Mhar. It did not take too much effort to arrange for Vervain to study abroad, though it was not usual. Most Tenders were taught by Blessers in their own countries, usually their own cities or towns.

She reached down for the goblet of water she always kept at her side at night, and gulped at it. Her throat hurt from her scream. As she drank, Vervain examined her dream.

A red fox was running swiftly, but not in fear. Its brush was full and proud and its
—
his
—
movements strong and bold. A bird
—
blackbird? Raven? Crow? Hard to tell
—
dove at the running fox. Now the images blurred. A squirrel, small but full of chatter, scolded from a tree; a rat poked its nose up from its hole
—

—
The image was swallowed by utter darkness. Then Vervain was walking in the Prayer Room, kneeling before the stone statue of Health, beseeching her aid. Without warning, the plain but friendly features of the goddess contorted, as if the divine being were in terrible agony. Tears of blood streamed down Health's face, and the stone head toppled to the floor
—

Vervain blinked. She clutched the empty goblet so hard that her hands ached and her face was dewed with sweat. She had no idea what any of the symbols meant, but if Jemma had been right, the fear they had caused her sleeping self meant that they did not bode well at all.

She sighed, steadying herself. Putting the goblet down on the stone floor, she swung her long legs out from under the covers. Naked, she walked over to a table and poured water in a basin. Vervain splashed her face, and the calming, chamomile-scented liquid drove the last residue of terror from her mind. She reached for a cake of soap and a sponge. Though dawn was several hours away, Vervain knew that she had a difficult task ahead of her, and time was running out. There would be no more sleep for her tonight.

Her face set in an unaccustomed grimness, she unbraided her long, thick, brown hair and began to brush it out.
I only wish,
she thought wryly,
that I knew what it was I was supposed to be preparing for.
As she brushed, she heard the Godstower bell ring for Vengeance's service.

Freylis's snoring sounded like the growl of a mountain cat, and Marrika bit down hard on an urge to kick the loud sleeper in a delicate area. At last, she wriggled free of the stain-stiff bedding, smelling Freylis's scent on her like a noxious second skin.
At least Pedric bathed every day,
she thought sourly as she reached for her clothes.

Pedric. The one man she had misjudged in her entire life. Not only had he refused to be upset when she left him, he had taken up with a lady of manners very shortly thereafter. And not just a lady, but the daughter of the Head Councilman! Marrika snorted in disgust, and froze as the sound quieted Freylis for an instant. If he awoke, he'd want her back in bed beside him. And that, Marrika knew, meant another unpleasant bout of sexual activity. The big thief mumbled something, rolled over on his back, and resumed his deafening rumble.

Marrika breathed freely again. Freylis was usually a deep sleeper. Heavy drinking tended to assure that particular habit. Her plan to seduce Freylis and thus avail herself of his rather impressive group of hangers-on was working perfectly, except that she found herself disliking more and more to have to pay the necessary price for such a position. For the last couple of nights, when she was certain Freylis would not awaken, Marrika had taken to slipping off and wandering by herself at night.

She finished tugging on her calf-high, well-worn leather boots, tucked her oversized shirt into tight-fitting black trousers, and walked quietly toward the paneless window. She glanced back at the bed, at the lump that was her present lover, and her gaze swept the small room with intense dislike. Marrika knew better than to expect any thief's dwelling—again, except of course for Pedric's—to be beautiful, or even large. She did, though, wish that Freylis's room wasn't quite so . . . filthy. The sweaty clothes could almost stand by themselves. Freylis would eat off crusted, day-old food rather than clean his dishes, and the chamber pot hadn't been emptied for several days.

She hesitated just long enough to retrieve her leather-covered grappling hook, and stepped boldly onto the window sill. She sat, swung her lithe torso around, and began to ease herself down. Freylis lived in the small room above a candle maker's shop. It wasn't too far off the ground, only a single story, and Marrika had no trouble negotiating toeholds until she could drop safely, silently, to the ground. When her solitary walk was completed, she would return the way she had come with the help of her grappling hook. Such entrances and exits were familiar to Marrika, whose specialty was climbing into the rooms of unsuspecting second-story residents.

Her feet landed with a soft crunch on the gravelly stone. Once down, she crouched, tense, her back flat on the wall until she was confident she had not been observed. She dropped the hook into the sack she had made for it and tied it securely to her belt. Then, tossing her mane of curly black hair out of her eyes, she strolled into the darkness.

Marrika never had a destination on these late-night treks. Her only desire was to steal a few hours to herself, a few precious moments when she wasn't "Freylis's woman." Tonight Marrika's aimless wandering brought her to the center of the sleeping town. The temples were closed and dark at this hour, save for the ever-present illumination that spilled from Light's temple and the two lamps that flanked the Godstower.

A movement in the darkness caught her eye, and she tensed, hand on her dagger. But the shape scurrying across the cobblestones, the lantern it carried bobbing as it went, showed no interest in Marrika. It scuttled to the Godstower and was swallowed by shadow. A moment later, the deep, resonant tolling of the bell echoed through the square.

It took Marrika a moment to recall whose time of day it was. Her eyes widened as she remembered, and a slow smile spread across her lips. She sheathed her knife and walked, hips swaying deliberately, over to the Godstower.

When the man emerged, she stepped out of the shadows. "Greetings, Blesser of Vengeance." The little man gasped aloud. Then, his voice trembling, he replied, "And unto you, my good lady. Are you coming to the service, then?"

"Indeed I am, Blesser." She kept her voice soft, pleasantly modulated, as she sized up the Blesser of one of humankind's most feared gods. He wore the robes of his brotherhood, black cloth that almost enveloped him. The moon shining down on his face gave her a good view of his countenance. He was small and slight, a young man to have such sunken, angular features. She couldn't see his eyes clearly, but knew they darted about because the moonlight glittered as they moved.

He's nervous,
she thought.
Good.

Marrika followed him silently as he hastened back to the shelter of his god's temple. It was a moderate-sized, low stone building, void of the ornate decorations that often adorned other holy houses. Within, the Holy House was dark, and as the Blesser pulled open the massive door, the blackness seemed almost palpable. But Marrika was not afraid. Unlike most of the citizenry of Braedon, she regarded the cloak of darkness as her favorite garment.