King's Man and Thief (29 page)

But they did not come. The murders of the two men had been done in silence. The yowl of a temple cat was nothing unusual; and the remaining guards had been too far away to hear Castyll's frightened footfalls.

Castyll felt the panicky tension ebb away, and he sagged in Damir's grip. He had never witnessed murder before, and it horrified him. No matter that it had been done to save his life; no matter that the men now dead were in the pay of the hated Bhakir. No matter. Two men who had once been alive were now stiffening on the grass outside of Love's temple, and Castyll could not help but be repulsed.

Damir's grip was strong and comforting. "I know. The first time you see it..." his voice trailed off and he did not complete the thought. "Come. We cannot hope to hide the fact that you had help escaping, not now, but we can make good that escape."

Moving as silently as they could, Damir and Castyll hastened toward the waiting horses—and freedom.

Six days.

Six frustrating, lie-filled, anxious, and above all long, days. Days in which Deveren was certain that someone would send a Healer to attend the ill Damir. Days in which he dreaded that he would suddenly run out of falsehoods. Days in which he just knew, as certainly as the sun rose in the east, that he had said something untoward that would alert some stealthy spy that Damir was not home in bed suffering from a bad case of the sneezes, but was on Mharian soil and off to rescue the young king.

Six very difficult days.

The only bright spot in this dreadful time was the simple note that had been left with one of the servants:
The cats have caught the rat, and sent it to the gods.
The strange, huge, dangerous creature that had lurked in Braedon's sewers had been captured, killed, and burned by some of this thieves; he did not yet know who. That was a huge relief, though not as huge a relief as Damir's safe return would be.

Deveren had been obliged to attend the final performance of
The Queen of All,
though public appearances generally led to unwanted questions about his "poor sick brother." But Deveren could not refuse to show up; that would draw even more unwanted attention. Although the night was beautiful—clear and balmy, with a thousand stars glittering in the indigo sky—and the play was fine, Deveren Larath hunched in his seat at the amphitheater and watched the show with no enjoyment whatsoever.

Pedric was not in attendance. Deveren hadn't seen him since that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. It was unlike the young man not to attend a closing performance, but Deveren couldn't blame him. This was the show he had seen with his beloved on the night she was slain. Pedric probably couldn't bear watching it now. Still, Deveren worried about the youth.

A soft sob next to him brought his attention back to the stage. Ah, yes, this was the scene that always brought tears to the eye. The dreadful Elf-King, played so skillfully by Kyle Kierdan, was using his unnatural charms to trick the Queen of the title. Despite the fact that he had watched this play and this scene at least a dozen times during rehearsals and performances, Deveren found himself leaning forward, engrossed.

Kierdan was tall and slim; too tall for a real elf-king, if the legends were to be believed. But he moved with an uncanny grace, and his voice was smooth as honey. The poor Queen would have had to be more than mortal to resist such charms. And before she realized it, she had voiced her darkest desires—to murder, with her own hands, her enemy's children.

A sudden flash! Deveren blinked, and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the Elf-King had two children with him. They wore hoods and cloaks, and the Queen rushed at them with a dagger, brutally killing the young things.

Deveren felt a chill. Playacting, yes; the blood was fake and the children would take their pleased bows at the curtain call. But it was hard to watch, nonetheless. Harder yet when the Elf-King crowed gleefully that the Queen had murdered her own children, taking evil delight in yanking off the hoods of the dead little boy and girl.

Deveren heard sobs throughout the audience, and smiled. What a show. That Kyle Kierdan —he was magnificent. Deveren watched the rest of the play, and stood along with the rest of the audience to applaud the hardworking actors. Kierdan received the loudest applause. And as always, to distance himself from the role of such an evil being, he removed the fair-haired wig and pointed imitation ears before he bowed.

Deveren smothered a grin. Poor Kyle. He was sensitive about that thinning hair of his, almost as sensitive as Damir was about his.

His grin faded as the thought registered. Suddenly Deveren was very glad indeed that he had chosen to come tonight.

An hour later, after Kyle Kierdan had been plied with drink and fine food at one of the better establishments in town, Deveren took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and stated the reason for the meeting.

"I want to buy out your contract with the troupe."

Kyle choked on the mouthful of roasted salmon with wine sauce. Deveren glanced around quickly, hoping the actor's coughing would not attract undue attention. Kyle recovered himself, wiped at his streaming eyes, and took a drink of wine. His face was angry but composed.

"May I ask why? I daresay that my performance as the Elf-King has made your purse the heavier, Lord Larath. There have been no complaints about my conduct off the stage, and—" "It is precisely your skill as an actor that I need," Deveren interjected. "Keep your voice down, please."

Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Your pardon, my lord, but I don't understand."

"Let me try this again. I want to terminate your contract with the troupe because I wish to hire you for another performance."

Kyle cheered up considerably and dove into the braised greens with renewed gusto. "Well, that's quite different then, your lordship."

Deveren regarded him intently. He had the same basic build as Damir; the same receding hairline; even the same color eyes. The face was not quite right, but the right actor could do wonders with makeup. If he was kept at a distance . ..

"It's a very unusual assignment. You won't be able to discuss it with anyone, either during the, er, performance or at any time afterward. And after you are finished, I must ask you to leave Braedon for a few months." He leaned over the oak table, looked Kyle in the eye. "I will make it worth your while."

Kyle leaned forward, until their noses were only inches apart. "How much worth my while?" "I'll match every copper you earned for the entire run of
The Queen of All
and give you a bonus if you do the job right."

The actor's thin eyebrows shot up, but otherwise, he did not react. "How long a run?" 'Three, four days. Perhaps a week."
"Good gods, Lord Larath ... what kind of a job is this?"

"Finish your meal. I don't want to attract attention." As Kyle returned to his salmon, Deveren glanced about surreptitiously. No one was paying them any heed. "It's just a lark, really—a joke. You know my good brother, Lord Damir Larath?"
"I've met him, yes. What about him?"

"He's going to be gone for a few days. He's been ill; thinks getting out of the city for a while will help him recover. We were talking last night; he was saying how much the good people of Braedon will miss him." Deveren was well into his own role now, completely at ease spinning the falsehood. "I of course replied that he could fall into the ocean and not be missed. We had a slight wager on it."

"Can't have been too slight," murmured Kyle.

"All right —not slight at all. It's one of those silly things brothers do." Deveren smiled his most disarming grin. Kyle smiled back and poured himself another goblet of wine. Clearly, he suspected nothing. "At any rate, I'd like for you to impersonate him while he's away. That way, if no one thinks he's gone, no one can miss him. And I win my wager."

"Your pardon, sir, but... I haven't really had a chance to study the man. And I don't think I resemble him that much."

"Kyle, I've seen how you can transform yourself into any character you want. And you look enough like him that I think we can manage it. Come, man, have you no sense of adventure?" "Well... your brother won't be angry with me?"

"Oh, he'll be hopping mad, all right, but with me, not with you. Damir generally knows who's to blame for what."

"It
is
tempting.... Oh, very well."
"Wonderful! Do you know where I live, Kyle?"
"Aye, milord."

'Then order yourself a sweetcake to end your meal and tonight, after Death's hour has tolled, come to my house. Take care that no one sees you. I have my brother's clothes and other things that—"

"Come back here, you little rat!" The innkeeper's voice was loud and thunderous with anger. Deveren turned to see what all the commotion was about. Even as the innkeeper continued to yell, a shrill, high voice rose in wordless counterpoint. Deveren was just in time to see the flash of a black dress, bare feet and, for just the briefest instant, the faded face of an old rag doll.

He scattered a handful of coins on the table as he rose, saying hastily to Kyle, "This should pay for the meal. Keep the rest." Before the startled actor could reply, Deveren was threading his way through the clutter of tables and benches, trying to reach the child before the angry innkeeper did.

He was too late. Allika had not been swift enough and the heavyset man had her by the arm. She squalled and twisted, her face red as a pomegranate with fury. The innkeeper's heavy hand crashed down on her small face.

"Damned little vermin-ridden thief," the man grunted, his eyes bright and his own face flushed with excitement. "I'll teach you to steal from my kitchen, gods help me I will!"

Deveren lunged forward and seized the man's meaty arm, preventing a second blow from landing on Allika's already swollen cheek. Growling, the man turned to Deveren, his teeth clenched in raw fury. The anger faded as he recognized Lord Larath. Allika, though, continued to scream.

"What in the Nightlands is going on?" yelped Deveren.

"This—brat—was stealing from my kitchen. Gone and eaten nearly half a chicken pasty by the time I'd caught her!"

Allika paused long enough to fill her lungs with air, then continued shrieking. Deveren was confounded by her behavior. If she'd wanted to steal, she'd have done so and not gotten caught. And he'd never seen her carrying on like this, wailing and screaming ...

"Here," he said to the innkeeper. "Let me recompense you for your trouble and take the child away."

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you know this brat, Lord Larath?" He had to speak loudly to be heard over the din of the screeching little girl.

"No," lied Deveren, "but if she stole your food and not your money, I'm sure she's just hungry. I will take care of it," he emphasized, dropping a heavy silver coin into the man's beefy palm. The innkeeper's expression turned from suspicion to greedy pleasure.

"That you will, sir," he agreed. He let go of Allika's arm. At once, like a rabbit flushed from its lair, Allika bolted for the door. The only reason Deveren was able to catch her was that he had longer legs. His hand closed on her arm and Allika stumbled, starting to scream again.

Now Deveren saw why. The wound he and Damir had bound only, what, eight days ago, was oozing and ugly. Even in the dim torchlight from the inn, he could see that there were dark tendrils winding up and down her small, pale limb. Her head lolled back on her shoulders and her eyes were squeezed shut. The dreadful sound she was emitting would have woken the dead.

"Allika!" Deveren gripped her shoulder and shook her hard. The dark eyes snapped open and for the first time that evening she seemed to recognize him.

"F-fox?" she whispered.
"Yes, honey, it's me," he replied. "'What's wrong?"

She blinked, as if dazed. "I don't. . ." Suddenly she gasped and doubled over, clutching her stomach as if she were in excruciating pain. "Oh . . ." she moaned.

"That does it," said Deveren. "I'm taking you to a Healer."

Her head whipped up and there was a feral look on her face. Her little teeth were bared in a grimace.
"No!"

She fought him like a mountain cat, but his superior strength won over. Finally Deveren slung the struggling girl over his shoulder and, unnamed fear welling inside him, strode swiftly toward the temple of Health.

Heart of a doe, Voice of a lark, Breast of a dove, Hands of a Healer.
-Byrnian saying, 'The Virtues of Woman"

Despite Deveren's best efforts, Allika's cries of protest preceded them as they approached Health's temple. By the time Deveren, one-handed, managed to wrestle the waist-high gate open and enter the area that served as a small garden, the lights had been lit in the temple and Vervain stood silhouetted in the doorway.

"I never seem to see you but in a crisis," she said lightly, as she swept forward to meet him. "I didn't know you had a daughter, Lord Larath. What is her name?"

"I don't. Deveren, please. Her name is Allika, though at this moment her name ought to be Miss Needs-A-Spanking." Allika's shrill cries had managed to find that special resonance and volume that engendered real irritation, fond though Deveren was of the child.

"Oh," replied the Blesser, "no child ever needs a spanking, do they, Allika?" The little girl was on the ground now, though still held in Deveren's secure grip. She glared first at the Healer, then up at Deveren.

"Want to spank Fox for holding me like that," she snarled.

Deveren's heart spasmed. He found Vervain looking at him strangely, her eyes wide, one slim hand reaching up to her throat. His gaze locked with hers. He searched frantically for a lie, anything to explain why Allika called him "Fox," but his tongue cleaved to his throat. Why should he be so alarmed? Fox could simply be an affectionate nickname, not the alias of the leader of the thieves of Braedon. Yet he stood, guiltily silent.