King's Man and Thief (18 page)

All decisions must be approved by the governing body of the council of Mhar, in consultation with His Majesty.

—
Charter of Governance, 1183

Deveren was about as angry as he had ever been in his life. He slammed down the little hunting cup almost hard enough to shatter the carved beast. "' The Fox gives Fox a taste quite fine, /When out of his head you drink your wine,'" he quoted through clenched teeth. "The first theft."

The thieves watched, sitting in a semicircle in Rabbit's back room, their eyes round. Rarely had they seen Deveren this agitated.

"'The hounds will chase, the hounds will tear/Your flesh, unless their teeth you bear.'" Out of the sack came three studded collars, which Deveren tossed on the floor next to the cup. "Behold the 'teeth' of Vandaris's hounds. And finally, the literal brush of Vandaris's 'Vixen'—the final theft."

He did not drop this one, but held it clenched in his hand.

His hazel eyes scanned the crowd, searching for some twitch, some nervous tic, anything that would betray the thieves seated here as kidnappers and would-be murderers. He prayed he wouldn't find it. Damir had been certain that one of the thieves had been responsible for Lorinda's abduction— certain, as far as Deveren was concerned, without a shred of proof.

"Is there any among you who doubts that I have passed the test—that I am in truth your leader?"

There was silence for a long moment and then, unexpectedly, someone in the back began to clap. Others joined in until the sound rang through the little room. Discomfited, Deveren raised his hands, trying to quiet the crowd.

"Hurrah for Leader Fox!"
"Three Grand Thefts. We didn't think you'd do it!"
"Tell us, Fox, how did you manage them?"
"That's another story for another day," protested Deveren. He glanced over at Pedric worriedly.

Pedric was not doing well. Under Vervain's ministrations he had physically healed. Even the dreadful swelling of his nose was starting to go down now. But the Blesser could not heal Pedric's inner wounds. Only the safe return of Lorinda would do that, and with each hour that passed, Deveren grew less and less hopeful that such a thing would occur.

Feeling his friend's gaze upon him, Pedric raised his eyes. There was very little about him now that bespoke the debonair rake he used to be. He had not changed clothing since the incident two nights ago, nor had he bathed. His thick brown hair was wild and his face was pale, save for the huge bruises that encircled his eyes, the result of lack of sleep and the broken, healing nose. It was almost only by sheer force of will that Deveren had managed to get him to choke down some food. As soon as Vervain pronounced him well enough to rise, Pedric had gone to the Council Seat. Deveren presumed he was scouring the dark back streets and unsavory areas in search of the girl. But such searches, including those performed by the city guards, had yielded nothing.

Tonight, Healsdae, had been the first time Deveren had been able to gather his thieves. He cleared his throat, and with a silent prayer that they would listen, he began.

"This is my first instruction to you as your leader, and I know it's not what you're expecting. I've got no plans for a heist, no theories on where the biggest crowds will be for pickpocketing come the Midsummer Festival. I'm asking— telling—you to keep your eyes and ears open for news.

"Lisdae evening, Pedric here was viciously attacked and his lady abducted from the maze in the Garden. The incident occurred sometime between Death's hour and Vengeance's hour. Pedric was set upon from behind and is unable to identify his attackers. The woman who was abducted—" and here Deveren took a deep breath, "—was Lorinda Vandaris, only child of the Head Councilman. No doubt, you've heard about this before now. I can't imagine that any of you could have missed the redoubling of security that's been going on the two days."

Murmurs of alarmed surprise greeted Deveren's statement. They had heard about the abduction, but clearly had no idea that young Pedric, one of their own, had been so intimately involved. All of the faces showed concern; but to Deveren's surprise and pleasure, some showed sympathy.

He attempted to lighten the mood a little. "Now, I'm certain that you'd hesitate to go to Vandaris or Jaranis with any information. Can't say that I'd blame you. But you—any of you—can come to me if you've heard anything—anything at all. Even," he added pointedly, "if it's bad news." Bear had been notorious for blaming the messenger of bad tidings. Deveren was wise enough to realize that if he wanted to use his thieves as an information-gathering system, he needed to establish himself as an understanding leader. Who would deliver bad tidings if a beating was certain to ensue?

'To prove what I say," he continued, "I'm offering a reward to whoever can give me information leading to recovering Lorinda." He glanced at Pedric again, then went on. "Alive ... or dead. A higher reward if she's alive."

"No one will be troubled by the law," said Pedric unexpectedly. "There will be no repercussions. And I'll add my purse to whatever Deveren's offering. Please," and his voice cracked ever so slightly, "help me to find her."

Deveren continued, giving a detailed account of what had happened that night and Lorinda's physical appearance. When he had finished, he listened to various comments and questions, and when all business had been attended to, the meeting degenerated into a social swirl.

He expected the worst when Marrika separated herself from Freylis and walked over to Pedric. The younger man, too, tensed. Marrika was a volatile woman. What was she up to? She glanced over at Deveren, then addressed Pedric. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss," she said. A muscle tightened in Pedric's jaw. "I'm sure you are," he said in a tone that indicated precisely the opposite.

"You don't believe me. I admit I was angry when we parted, but I certainly wouldn't be cruel enough to wish something like this on you." She touched his shoulder gently. "I
am
sorry," she repeated.

Pedric gazed into her eyes, then smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said. She squeezed his shoulder and walked away, slipping into Freylis's arms for a quick embrace before settling into her usual corner, taking out her carving knife, and beginning to work on a chunk of whalebone.

"Seems we may have judged Raven a touch harshly," said Deveren softly to Pedric. The youth shrugged.

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is finding Lorinda." He took a deep breath, seemed to rouse himself, and asked, "Why didn't you mention the attack on your life? Someone might have come forward with information."

Deveren laughed, a sound that had no humor in it. "With this group —at least the way they are now—that would only be putting ideas in their heads. The ones who tried it will probably try it again. And the ones that didn't might think it would be a grand idea. No, I'll just keep my eyes and ears open."

"And hire a taster."

The breeze was high on HoDesdae, but the weather was otherwise mild. Hair, capes, dresses, and hats were tousled by the wind but all the celebrants were in good humor. After all, today was a citywide holiday in Ilantha.

The death of the former Blesser of Love had been swift and unexpected. She was only in her forties, far too young, one might think, to have had a killing seizure that stopped her heart within minutes. The Healer who had been summoned had been able to do nothing, and she had died, ironically, on Healsdae. Fortunately, the Healer assured the grieving community, the Blesser's death had been quick and painless.

The city was plunged into mourning for a full day. But with the dawning of HoDesdae, mourning was cast aside. It was a new beginning, with a new Blesser of the best-loved goddess in Verold. The revelers who thronged the winding streets of the port city wore their most festive colors; the shopkeepers were quick to come up with items to commemorate the day, and taverns were crowded.

Probably the most pleased celebrant was the young king. He wondered if the gods would be angry at him for being so happy that one of their Blessers had died, but the nature of this ceremony demanded that he be present. And that got him out of Seacliff, and out, for a few brief moments, from under the thumb of Bhakir.

Oh, certainly the guards were still there, but there was at least the illusion of freedom as young King Castyll rode on his fine mount at the side of the youthful Tender. On such occasions, when the king was residing in that particular city, tradition demanded that he be the escort of the Blesser-to-be as he or she rode the "Long Mile" from the Holy House to the center of town. Sometimes it was, of course, longer than a mile; sometimes it was only a few feet. Nobody cared. The Long Mile it was called, and the Long Mile it would remain.

Castyll and his entourage, including Bhakir, had arrived at the door of Love's temple at dawn. A throng of citizens had followed, eager to witness the entire ceremony from beginning to end. Adara, the Tender who had been appointed to succeed the late Blesser, appeared at the door. Castyll, even in the midst of dark thoughts and longing for his freedom, couldn't help but notice how young and vulnerable she looked. She was only fourteen, younger even than he. But like him, Adara carried herself well, and the enormous responsibilities that came hand in hand with being the Blesser of Love in such a large city did not seem to rest awkwardly on her narrow shoulders.

Her hair was braided with wildflowers, and she wore not the light blue robe of a Blesser, but the simple white garment that marked her, for the moment, as a mere Tender. Her feet were bare, used to walking inside the Holy House and through Love's garden without protection.

She was not beautiful, but her smile was. He proffered his arm and Adara took it, letting him escort her to the unsaddled mare which awaited her. She mounted clumsily and her grip on the horse's mane was white-knuckled, but her face betrayed nothing of her fear. Castyll's heart went out to her. She was so young to have had this thrust upon her. But then, so had he been. His sympathy soured into a stab of self-pity as he thought that at least Adara's predecessor had died a natural death. The late Blesser of Love had not been helped along toward her meeting with the Dark Lady by a scheming counselor.

They did not speak overmuch. It would have been hard to chat pleasantly regardless, for the cries of the happy crowd drowned out any but the most full-throated declarations. Castyll tried to reassure the girl with smiles, and Adara returned them nervously.

At last the Long Mile was done. Castyll dismounted easily and reached to help the Tender slide down. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as she dismounted, and he felt her tremble. He squeezed her arm reassuringly, then the two of them, king and the god's earthly representative, walked forward to meet the highest-ranking Blesser of Love in Mhar.

All Blessers had a Protector or Protectress of their order, selected by a council of Blessers chosen at random throughout the whole country. The council traveled through the land, visiting every city, town, every castle and farmstead, meeting all the Blessers and basing their decision on these meetings and on personal testimony. It was as free from political maneuvering as such things could be—which is to say, not quite entirely free. Once chosen, the Protectress would sever all personal ties to her friends, family, and home. She would even be stripped of her name, henceforth be known only by her title. Her duties were many and varied, but the induction of new Blessers certainly was among the happiest.

Mhar's Protectress of Love was rail-thin, but stood straight as the young king, perhaps even straighter. Her long hair, gray as slate, hung unbound, strands dancing in the playful wind, and despite the solemnity of the occasion there was warmth in the old woman's eyes and seamed face. Her garb was a rich, bright blue and she wore a belt of golden chain. Standing beside her was Love's chosen animal—a small, skittish fawn. Encircling the little beast's throat was a golden chain that matched the Protectress's. A Tender not much older than Adara held the nervous creature in check, speaking to it softly and patting its smooth, dappled coat.

"Welcome, Adara, Tender of Love," said the Protectress in a husky voice that nonetheless carried well. "You come before Love's Protectress a girl, but you shall depart a woman."

Castyll watched the initiation along with the others, but his thoughts were not on the sacred rite he witnessed. He was thinking about the speech tucked into his belt; the speech that he was to give to all within earshot after young Adara became a full Blesser; the speech that he, Castyll, had not penned one single word of. Every syllable was Bhakir's, pushing forward the counselor's treasonous plans. In that document was amnesty for pirates, official countenancing of replacing good men with evil. It shook to the foundation everything Shahil had worked for—everything he had hoped that his son would carry on in his stead.

There was another speech —in Castyll's mind. He mentally reviewed it while the young Tender was undressed, bathed, anointed with oils, and reclad in the light blue robe of a fully vested Blesser. Her body was tanned and firm, only just beginning to fill out with womanly curves. There was little salaciousness in observing Adara nude. Everyone present knew that this was a deep ritual, and the majority behaved accordingly. The sight of the young Blesser's body made Castyll think only of Cimarys, and he wondered briefly what the young Princess of Byrn would look like standing naked in the sunshine.

The thought produced an instant physical reaction, and Castyll hastily returned his wandering thoughts to more pressing—even deadly—matters.

It was over. Laughing and crying, the new Blesser embraced the Protectress, then knelt to put her arms around the young deer. It bleated in protest and skipped backward, and all assembled laughed. Adara, Blesser of Love, rose and turned to Castyll, her eyes shining, with an odd mixture of pride and apprehension on her plain face.

"King Castyll," she began, stepping forward boldly, as was her right now to do —the Blessers obeyed the king, but being representatives of the gods, walked on almost equal footing with their liege—until she was only a foot or so away from him. "I am now a fully vested Blesser of Love. I invite you, before all assembled, to be the first to come to me to be taught in the ways of Love, so that you might better honor the goddess."