Warrior (60 page)

“I’ll not reveal your involvement, your highness. You have my word.”

“Not to your husband. Not to anybody. Not ever. Not even when you’re back in Hythria, congratulating yourself on your narrow escape. You have no idea how easily these things get back to my father.”

Luciena nodded. “Not to anyone, your highness. I give you my word. As a woman. And as a Wolfblade.”

“Then I will look forward to having you prove the word of a Wolfblade can be trusted.” Adrina smiled a little sceptically. “Good luck, Lady Taranger.”

“And to you, your highness.”

Luciena curtseyed as politely as she could manage and then fled the harem, wishing she’d listened to her instincts and turned the ship around the moment they’d spotted Hablet’s Palace Guard waiting for them on the docks. That it would have meant sailing away in a ship dangerously low on food and fresh water seemed insignificant now, because if Adrina was to be believed—and Luciena could think of no reason why the young princess would lie—her family was in danger.

They had to get out of there.

And they had to do it now. Today.

Before whatever sinister plan that evil little eunuch, Lecter Turon, had in mind for her family could be put into action.

With Krakandar’s rat extermination drive in full swing, Wrayan had little chance to conduct any normal business for the Thieves’ Guild in the weeks following the young prince’s orders to seal the city.

For the first time in years, he had precious little to do and plenty of time in which to do it.

The population had got right behind the effort to keep their city free of the plague. Even Mahkas’s obsessive recordkeepers had given up counting the number of rats they had trapped and killed and incinerated in the vast furnaces of the glassworks, but the common belief was that the number ran into the hundreds of thousands.

Rat catching was turning into a thriving business for some. There were even miracles attributed to this grand effort to clean up the city. Wrayan had witnessed one such miracle himself when old Ronlin, the blind beggar who regularly worked the street outside the Pickpocket’s Retreat, discovered how much more profitable rat catching was than begging. His sight had been miraculously restored about three heartbeats after the beggar did the sums in his head. Wrayan had watched him take in the news, work out the profit margin, tear off the filthy rags that covered his supposedly blind eyes, and scurry away down the street in search of rats.

He wasn’t sure what was more disturbing about that particular miracle: that Ronlin had so readily abandoned his career as a beggar, or that Wrayan found himself explaining to Fee (very slowly and more than once) that it really hadn’t been magic that restored the beggar’s sight because Ronlin had never been blind in the first place. Fyora was quite miffed to discover she’d been duped and was even talking about demanding a refund of the few copper rivets she’d thrown the poor man out of pity over the years. Wrayan was still shaking his head over the idea that in the twenty-odd years Ronlin had been begging outside the tavern, Fee had never woken up to the fact he was a fraud.

“Deep in thought?”

Wrayan started a little at the unexpected voice and looked up from the tally sheet he was working on in the booth by the window that he had long ago claimed as his own. Sitting in the previously unoccupied seat opposite him was a fair-haired boy of about fourteen, dressed in the worst collection of cast-off clothing Wrayan had ever seen. He stared at the lad in shock, then quickly looked around the tavern to see if anyone else had noticed his sudden appearance.

“Can anyone else see you?” he hissed.

“Of course not,” Dacendaran shrugged, and then he leaned forward and added in a theatrical whisper, “Why are you whispering like that?”

“What are you
doing
here?” Wrayan pushed the tally sheets aside—not that there had been much to tally. With the city sealed and everyone’s attention on rats, there wasn’t much in the way of theft going on in Krakandar at present.

The boy-god shrugged and leaned back in the booth, surveying the tavern with a curious grin.

“Just thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

Wrayan snorted sceptically, certain there was much more to Dacendaran’s sudden appearance than him just dropping by to say hello. “I didn’t think the gods made house calls.”

“Shows how much you know. What’s happening?”

Wrayan looked around the tavern warily, but nobody seemed to be paying the head of the Thieves’ Guild and the God of Thieves any attention. “Not much.”

“I noticed,” the boy remarked, his grin turning into a petulant scowl.

Wrayan smiled. “Aha! So that’s it! Business is a bit slow at the moment, eh, Divine One? What with everyone dropping dead from the plague and all.”

Dacendaran assumed an air of contrived innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Then he added in a rather peeved tone, “Anyway, even if that
was
the reason nobody’s stealing much at the moment, what’s your excuse? There’s no plague here in Krakandar.”

“We’ve been rather busy keeping it that way,” Wrayan informed him. “I’m sorry that doesn’t quite fit with your plans for world domination, Divine One.”

The God of Thieves was not amused. “You’re supposed to be the greatest thief in all of Hythria, Wrayan. That’s what you promised me.”

“And most of the time I am, Divine One. What’s more, I rule all your other worshippers in Krakandar with an iron fist and keep them loyal to you and only you. But I’m not going to be much good to you if I die from the plague. So, just accept that things are going to be a little slow until this disease has run its course. Better yet,” he added as an afterthought, “why not speak to whichever one of your brother or sister gods is responsible for this mess and get them to back off. Then we can all go back to business as usual.”

Dacendaran thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. “All right,” he said, and abruptly vanished.

Wrayan stared at the suddenly empty seat, shaking his head.

“Isn’t talking to yourself the first sign of delirium?”

Startled for the second time in almost as many minutes, Wrayan looked up to find Starros and Damin Wolfblade, the young Prince of Krakandar himself, standing beside his table, without the usual contingent of bodyguards that seemed to follow the young man around. Maybe with the city sealed against outsiders, Almodavar was satisfied the danger to his prince was scant enough to risk dispensing with them for a while. And Damin would be making the most of this unexpected freedom, Wrayan guessed, which was probably why he was here in the Pickpocket’s Retreat. Wrayan glanced past the two young men to discover there were already murmurs racing through the tavern about the prince’s presence in the Beggars’ Quarter. It wouldn’t be long before the place was packed to the rafters, once word got out that Damin was here.

And then he wondered how much the young men had heard of his conversation with Dace.

“I was just asking Dacendaran to do something about ridding us of this damn plague,” he explained with a smile, figuring the truth was probably more unbelievable than any story he could invent. “Won’t you join me?”

The two young men slid into the booth, occupying the seat so recently vacated by the God of Thieves. Fyora had spotted them and was already hurrying over with fresh tankards of ale. “So tell me, to what do we owe this great honour, your highness?” he asked, as Fee arrived at the table. “It’s not often we catch you down here slumming it in the Beggars’ Quarter with us poor peasants.”

“Rats,” Damin explained. “Rats, rats and more rats. My uncle thinks we’re crazy, but it seems to be working so far.”

“We’ve been down at the glassworks checking on the disposal of the carcasses,” Starros added.

“And the idea of coming all this way without paying a visit to the lovely Fyora was simply unthinkable,” Damin declared, with a winning smile at the
court’esa
. She blushed furiously and looked about ready to faint with happiness that Damin had remembered her name.

Wrayan shook his head at her foolishness. “There’s people waiting to be served, Fee.”

Forcing her attention away from the prince, whose mere presence seemed to have turned her into a puddle on the floor, Fee stared at Wrayan blankly. “What?”

“You have
other
customers,” the thief reminded her, pointing at the bar where the inevitable crowd was starting to gather, every man and woman there trying to give the impression they hadn’t noticed who was sitting in the corner booth with Wrayan Lightfinger.

Fyora glanced over her shoulder and sighed heavily, before turning back to Damin. “Will there be anything else, your highness? Anything at all? More ale? Wine? Food?”

“Thank you, Fee, but this ale and your smile are all I need. Take care of your other customers.”

Still blushing an interesting shade of crimson, Fyora curtsied awkwardly and, with a great deal of reluctance, left the booth and headed back to the counter. Wrayan frowned at Damin disapprovingly. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, full of wounded innocence.

“Flirt with her like that. She’s old enough to be your mother.”

“Actually, she’s probably older than my mother,” Damin noted. “And, excuse me, but I wasn’t flirting with her! I was just being nice, that’s all.”

Wrayan looked at Starros for help. “You explain it to him.”

Starros put down his ale, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and nodded in agreement.

“Wrayan’s got a point, Damin.”

“
What
point?”

“You’re Krakandar’s prince. You shouldn’t get too familiar with the working
court’esa
.”

Damin stared at Starros in horror. “This from the man who stopped me in the middle of the Beggars’ Quarter to introduce me to a couple of them! Gods, Starros! Don’t frighten me like that! For a moment there, I thought you were Mahkas. And, if you don’t mind, just exactly what’s so wrong with getting to know the working
court’esa
of my city?”

Wrayan laughed delightedly. “Oh, please, can you ask us that again, Damin? When your uncle is around to answer it? And can I watch?”

Damin grinned, knowing it would be worth selling tickets to see Mahkas’s reaction. “Think I might, now you mention it. Should liven up the conversation at dinner tonight, at the very least.” His grin faded a little then and he took another swig from the tankard, adding sourly, “It might even get the topic off a few other things I’m getting rather tired of hearing about.”

Wrayan studied the two young men curiously for a moment. “Trouble up in paradise?”

“Lord Damaran is just being . . . Lord Damaran,” Starros explained.

By the defeated tone of his voice, Wrayan guessed it had something to do with Leila. “So you and your cousin aren’t exactly . . . falling in love?” he asked Damin.

When the prince hesitated before answering, Starros shrugged. “It’s all right, Damin. Wrayan knows.”

“Then you can understand how little I want any part of this,” Damin said, the first time Wrayan could recall ever seeing him so serious. “I’ve written to my mother and asked her to clear up the situation, but I don’t hold out much hope that her answer will get here before Mahkas has Leila escorted naked into my room like some sacrificial lamb and tied hand and foot to the bed to await my princely pleasure.”

“It can’t be that bad, surely?”

Starros nodded in agreement with the prince. “He as good as told Damin he could have Leila if he wanted her.”

“Any
way
I wanted her,” Damin added unhappily.

Wrayan felt for both young men, knowing how awkward it must be for them. That their friendship seemed to be weathering the storm so well was a good sign, though. This could easily have destroyed it, had either young man doubted the other’s integrity. “I wish I could offer some useful advice, boys, but I think you’re right, Damin. Mahkas is only going to believe your mother.”

“Can’t
you
do something to him?” Damin asked hopefully.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a magician, aren’t you? Can’t you put a spell on him, or something like that? Make him stop believing I’m ever going to marry his daughter?”

“What you’re asking for is called
coercion
,” Wrayan explained. “Even if I had the skill to work one, I wouldn’t attempt it. You can’t make someone believe something they fundamentally disagree with, Damin, and expect it to hold for long. Besides, the Harshini really frown on that sort of thing.”

Seeing that Damin wasn’t totally convinced, he warned, “And don’t even think of asking Rorin to do it.

He’d have less chance than me of making it work.”

“It was just a thought.”

“Make sure it stays that way.” Wrayan glanced around the tavern, noting it was almost filled to capacity by now, the crowd starting to edge a little closer to the booth. “And unless you’re planning to fight your way out of here, my lad, I suggest you get going while you can still find the door.”

Damin looked at the rapidly swelling crowd and nodded. “I suppose we should. Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure,” Wrayan assured him, rising to his feet, thinking the only way Damin was going to get out of the Pickpocket’s Retreat now, without being mobbed, was if Wrayan physically elbowed a path for him through to the door. “I imagine you don’t get served ale too often in the palace.”

“It’s not Mahkas’s vintage of choice, no,” Damin agreed with a chuckle. They slid off the bench and Starros automatically fell in on the other side of the prince as he stood up. Wrayan and Starros turned for the door.

Damin, however, did quite the opposite.

Unexpectedly, the young prince walked across to the nearest table, where several rough-looking workmen sat, nursing their ales and watching this highborn interloper warily. Damin smiled and introduced himself to the shocked commoners, which immediately precipitated exactly what Wrayan had been hoping to avoid. The young man was mobbed by the scores of people who’d come to gape at him, all wanting to say they’d met the young Prince of Krakandar, or shaken his hand, or even that they’d touched him.