Warrior (22 page)

“Actually,” the demon mused, “to be right back where you started, you’d have to return to Talabar.”

“You know what I mean.”

The demon was silent for a moment, and then she looked up at him curiously. “What will happen if you’re arrested?”

“I’ll get thrown in gaol until they can send me back to Talabar so I can be hanged for murder.”

“And while you’re in gaol, they’ll feed you, yes? And you’ll be out of the cold? With a roof over your head?”

Rory stared at the demon in shock. “Are you crazy?”

“Think of it as free board and lodging. My . . .
friend
. . . can arrange your release when he gets here in a couple of weeks.”

“Suppose they don’t throw me in gaol? Suppose they put me on the next wagon for Talabar and it leaves this afternoon?”

“I can arrange a delay, if the need arises. I’m here to help, remember?”

“I thought you were just supposed to keep an eye on me?”

“Don’t argue semantics with me, boy.”

Rory shook his head, thinking this the most insane idea he’d ever heard. If the demon was wrong, far from saving his life, he might be marching willingly to his own hanging. The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook might decide to hold his trial immediately. By the time Elarnymire’s mysterious friend arrived, Rory might be swinging from a gallows, his eyes picked clean by the ravens.

On the other hand, he had no way of hiding in Westbrook for more than a few days without being discovered, so maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

“Elarnymire, you said you only helped me out of the traps I couldn’t escape, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So if you’re telling me I can risk getting arrested here, that means I won’t be hanged, doesn’t it? That I’ll escape?”

“Theoretically.”

“Theoretically?”

“I’m a demon, Rory, not a fortune-teller.”

The boy looked down at the demon and then back up the road to the forbidding twin castles of Westbrook, paralysed with indecision. If he listened to the demon he would definitely be arrested and possibly killed. If he didn’t . . .

Well, that’s just it
, Rory realised.
The result is likely to be the same whether I surrender willingly
or not
. The only difference, he mused, was that if he gave himself up he might avoid a beating when they caught him, which, Rory had observed, was the way soldiers tended to let you know you were under arrest. He sighed heavily, shivering as the cold wind tugged at his thin shirt. Even if it wasn’t warm in the dungeons of Westbrook, at least he’d be out of the wind. And prison food was better than no food at all.

“If they kill me in there,” Rory informed the demon grumpily, “I’m going to be really mad at you.”

“You won’t be the only one,” the demon assured him.

Rory hesitated for a moment longer, and then, shaking his head at the folly of what he was about to do, he set off towards Westbrook with a demon at his heels, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to the guards on the gate when he surrendered.

Wrayan Lightfinger, the head of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild, received a summons to attend the palace some ten days after Princess Marla returned to the city.

The palace messenger arrived midmorning at his rooms on the third floor of the Pickpocket’s Retreat and had to bang loudly on the door for quite some time before he woke. Wrayan didn’t appreciate being disturbed when the sun was barely over the outer wall of the city. He didn’t sleep often, but when he did, everyone in the Retreat knew he slept late. He was head of a guild that conducted most of its business in the hours of darkness. His working day began at sunset and finished at sunrise.

Wrayan forced his eyes open, threw back the covers, noted with interest that he was not alone, and staggered sleepily to the door, trying to recall the name of the girl in the bed. Fyora. He remembered now. She was a working
court’esa
who lived at the Pickpocket’s Retreat. She’d been flirting with him for months. Last night, Wrayan recalled as he jerked the door open in annoyance, for no reason he could readily explain he’d decided to take her up on her offer.

“What?” he growled.

The young man who had been so rudely banging on his door took a startled step backwards. He wore high polished boots and a green tunic embroidered with a kraken over his heart.

A palace lackey, then
.

Quite naked and not the least bit shy about it, Wrayan glared at the lad.

“Are you Wrayan Lightfinger?” the lad asked, his brown eyes fixed firmly on Wrayan’s face to avoid looking anywhere more embarrassing. He was blushing, Wrayan noted with amusement. And completely out of his depth down here in the Beggars’ Quarter among all these thieves and whores.

“Who wants to know?”

“I have a message for you . . . him.”

“From who?”

“From
whom
,” the young messenger corrected, covering his nervousness with an air of superiority. “Are you Wrayan Lightfinger or not?”

“Yes. I’m Wrayan Lightfinger.”

“Then I am pleased to announce that Her Royal Highness, the Princess Marla of Hythria, mother of the High Prince’s heir, Lady of—”

“I know who she is, fool. Get to the point.”

The lad looked put out that he’d not been given a chance to complete the princess’s impressive list of titles. “As you wish, Master Lightfinger. Princess Marla requests that you attend her at the palace for lunch.”

“Does she now?”

“Am I able to tell Her Royal Highness that you accept her invitation?” It was clear the young man did not approve of the princess consorting with a known criminal.
The lower the servant the bigger the
snob
. Brak was fond of that expression.

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“What? I mean . . . well, yes . . . I’m able, it’s just . . . I . . . I mean, do you accept her invitation?”

the lad stammered impatiently.

“Yes,” Wrayan informed him, just as impatiently. “I accept. Was that all?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Wrayan slammed the door shut before the young man could add anything further.

On the bed, Fyora was stirring, her dark hair spilling over the pillows. She was in her early twenties, still pretty, still relatively new to her profession. She had trained as a
court’esa
for a time, but didn’t have that special “something” that made her
court’esa
material. She’d been bought from the slave markets by Hary Fingle, the owner of the Pickpocket’s Retreat, who had offered her the chance to buy back her freedom by working as a whore and a tavern wench for ten years. It didn’t seem long when you were young and hopeful, Wrayan knew, but ten years as a working
court’esa
was a lifetime, and the chances were good that she’d be dead long before her tenure was over, given the dangerous life she led.

Still, if she’d had the brains to understand
that
, she would have been smart enough to make it as a
court’esa
and would currently be living in the lap of luxury, a pampered pet of some wealthy lord, not working the taverns of the Beggars’ Quarter.

Wrayan was quite certain Fyora’s attraction to him was prompted by who he was rather than by any real affection for him. He was a powerful figure in Krakandar’s underworld. He might not be a nobleman, but in the Beggars’ Quarter, he was the next best thing. The worst of it, Wrayan realised as he crossed the room, was that the owner of the Pickpocket’s Retreat would probably bill him for her services, even though last night had technically been her night off and she was free to sleep with whomever she chose.

And Fyora had tried so hard to please him. He could have asked anything of her and he suspected she would have willingly complied. Fyora might not be the brightest jewel in Krakandar’s crown but she was smart enough to understand how much security she would gain as the mistress of the head of the Thieves’ Guild and she was willing to do just about anything to get it.

But it wasn’t going to happen. Not with Fyora. Not with any human woman. Brakandaran had warned him about this. She might be pretty and well trained, but Fyora was just another woman in a very long line of women who simply didn’t measure up to Wrayan’s impossible standards. The problem was his, not the women he took to his bed. He knew that. It just didn’t make any difference.

Wrayan had slept with a Harshini princess. No mortal woman could compare to that experience, no matter how hard she tried. No other human alive could appreciate what it felt like.

Fyora stretched languidly and held out her arms to him. “Come back to bed, lover.”

Wrayan shook his head and walked to the washstand instead. He splashed his face with the tepid water in the bowl and reached for the towel, wiping his face dry before he turned to look at her.

Fortunately, he was in the habit of bathing and shaving before he slept, so he’d get away with not shaving again before he left.

“I can’t, Fee. I have to go to the palace for lunch.”

Fyora glared at him and angrily threw back the covers. She climbed out of bed and began to hunt around for her clothes, obviously furious. Wrayan looked at her in astonishment. He didn’t think he’d said anything to warrant such a reaction.

“Do you have some sort of problem with me having lunch?” he enquired with a puzzled look.

“I have a problem with being treated like a fool,” she snapped as she retrieved her shift from the floor.

Wrayan was quite wounded by the accusation. “What did I say?”

“If you don’t want me here any longer, you just have to say so, Wrayan Lightfinger. You don’t have to lie to me.” She pulled the shift over her head and then dropped to her hands and knees, looking under the bed for her shoes.

“I didn’t say anything about not wanting you.”

“Of course not,” Fyora retorted, looking up at him from her hands and knees. “
I’m having lunch
at the palace
,” she mimicked sarcastically. “You must think I’m even more stupid than most women you sleep with.”

“But I really
am
having lunch at the palace,” he protested.

“Lord Damaran needs your counsel, I suppose?” she asked, still hunting under the bed for her lost shoe. “Or maybe it’s Princess Marla who needs the advice of the great Wrayan Lightfinger. I heard she arrived back in the city last week.” Fyora had found one of her shoes and slipped it onto her foot.

“I’ve known the princess for a long time, Fee.”

She found the other shoe and hurled it at him, then angrily scrambled to her feet, limping to the door with one bare foot.

Wrayan had caught the flying shoe by reflex and was still trying to fathom her remarkable and mood change, as Fyora jerked the door open and turned to him for one last parting shot. “You’re lying scum, Wrayan Lightfinger!”

Now that was just going too far
.

Without warning, the doorknob slipped out of Fyora’s hand and the frame rattled as the door slammed shut. She jumped away from it with a squeal of fright and turned to stare at him.

Then she screamed.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake!” Wrayan cursed as he realised the small amount of magic he had drawn to slam the door was still enough to make his eyes darken. He crossed the room in three strides and pushed her up against the door with his hand over her mouth, stifling her screams. Wrayan wasn’t sure what the rest of the residents of the Pickpocket’s Retreat would make of the racket coming from his room. He was hoping, given the clientele who frequented the place, that most of the other guests would simply turn a deaf ear to the noise.

“Stop it!” he ordered impatiently, holding her against the door by force. Fyora’s eyes were wide with fear. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

After a moment, he felt her relax and he took his hand from her mouth. She stared at him in a wordless mixture of awe and terror. Wrayan let go of the power and knew his eyes were slowly returning to their normal colour. He cursed his own stupidity. Normally, he wasn’t nearly so careless.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as gently as he could. He really liked Fyora. She didn’t deserve to be tossed aside like a cast-off cloak. He decided to let her down as gently as he could. It was a wise decision for more than the obvious reason. Fyora worked here in the Pickpocket’s Retreat, where Wrayan did much of his business and ate most of his meals. She had plenty of opportunity to get back at him if she decided he’d broken her heart. “I didn’t mean to frighten you like that. But I don’t deserve to have you chucking things at me, either. I’m not trying to get rid of you. I really
do
have to attend the palace for lunch. I honour the God of Thieves, not Liars. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”

“But how did you . . .”

“I used to be an apprentice at the Sorcerers’ Collective.” He smiled, hoping to reassure her. She was looking at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Don’t you listen to all the gossip about me?”

She searched his face, still trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or perhaps preparing her for another round of torment. “I . . . I thought it was just some story
you
spread about to make yourself sound mysterious.”

He smiled at her reassuringly. “Well, now you know.”

“But your eyes . . . what
are
you, Wrayan?”

He smiled cryptically. “Late, if I don’t get dressed.”

He kissed her lightly and then let her go and turned to the chest at the foot of his bed, thinking this was an occasion for more formal attire than he usually wore. Princess Marla probably wouldn’t care if he turned up wearing a sack, but Orleon was a stickler for rules of protocol. Still leaning against the door, Fyora watched him cautiously as he laid out his clothes.

“You really
are
going to the palace,” she said, when she saw the finery he dragged up from the bottom of the trunk.

“I thought we’d established that,” he remarked without looking at her. His boots were a little scuffed, but they would have to do. There was no time to get them polished to a parade-ground gleam.

Lunch at the palace waited on no man. It would take him a good hour to get to the palace as it was, even if he rode, given the midday bustle of the city.