Copyright 1997,
Christie Golden
PROLOGUE
1278
"You
don't have very long to get ready," Kastara chided her husband gently.
"I
told you, I'm not going." Deveren's voice sounded like a stubborn child's,
even in his own ears. His physical strength, though not inconsiderable, came
from lean, toned muscles rather than a bulky, powerful frame. That, combined
with his friendly, open face made him seem much younger than his twenty-seven
years. That boyish face was presently set in a scowl. He sprawled in one of
the beautifully carved chairs that decorated their solar. Horse muck clung
to his fine leather boots and spattered his breeches. His tunic was permeated
by the scent of sweaty Deveren and sweatier Flamedancer, his lively new horse,
and Lord Deveren Larath took a perverse pleasure in knowing that he probably
smelled worse than the lowliest stable hand in his employ. He crossed his
arms and glared at his wife.
Kastara
arched a raven-dark eyebrow. At that moment there came a knock on their solar
door.
"Enter,
Yalissa," called Kastara
"Go
away," barked Deveren at the same moment.
Yalissa,
knowing full well who was master of the house in this instance, stepped inside.
"I've brought the tub and hot water as you requested, milady," said the elderly
servant, motioning two stronger, younger boys inside. The three set about
readying Deveren's bath, selectively deaf to their master's complaints.
"I
told you, I'm not going. I haven't been to a performance here in Braedon without
you since the night we met and I refuse to start now.
"
From their bed, Kastara gazed at her husband, amusement quirking her full
lips. She absently rubbed her abdomen, eight months swollen with their first
child, as she replied.
"It's
a premiere," she said. "You're expected to attend premieres, love. That's
why you're called a patron." Her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with mischievous
humor in her pallid face.
Deveren
gazed at her, his sullenness fading as he took in her paleness, her thin hands
moving with an ancient rhythm over the mound of her belly. He could see the
blue veins clearly through her skin, and those dark circles under her eyes
worried him. Kastara had always been fragile. Part of her beauty was the enchanting
contrast between the delicate frame and the fiery spirit it housed.
"I
won't enjoy it without you," Deveren protested in all earnestness. While master
and mistress argued, the bath had been filled. The boys placed a cake of soap
and neatly folded towels on the rush mat beside the tub. Yalissa took a moment
to scatter some herbs into the steaming water, then followed the two serving
boys out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her.
"Your
cast will be heartbroken if you're not there. You've nurtured this show since
the beginning, Dev, and if you're not in the audience tonight--well, you're
always telling me how sensitive actors are."
"But..."
He searched for the words to continue his argument, even as he undressed,
immersed himself in the fragrant hot water, and reached for the cake of soap.
"But I don't like leaving you alone here while I'm off enjoying myself. It
doesn't seem fair.
"
Kastara rose with the singular combination of awkwardness and grace that marked
a pregnant woman, and eased herself down onto a stool beside the tub. She
took the cake from his hands and began to scrub his back with it.
"We'll
be fine," she assured him. "Cassim and Yalissa will be here, and in case Baby
decides he wants to come early they'll call in Health's Blesser right away.
Besides, you leave me alone all the time while you conduct business during
the day."
"That's
different," countered Deveren, taking the soap back and finishing the job
Kastara had begun. "That's not fun."
"If
it's a good play," Kastara continued, her fingers playing with her husband's
sandy brown hair, "it'll still be running when Baby comes. And if it's a bad
play--well, then you've saved me from a dreadful evening."
He
grinned at her, his hazel eyes laughing. They both knew he'd go, now, and
Deveren was not one to hang on to a bad mood. Kastara answered his smile with
one of her own, then heaved her bulk off the stool and back into the bed.
Deveren
finished bathing, dried himself, and dressed in garb appropriate to the theater:
a full-length, parti-colored tunic, a jeweled belt that accentuated his trim
waist, hose, fine slippers and a hat with a sweeping feather.
Kastara
sighed in mock appreciation. "If I weren't with child," she teased, "I might
not let you go to the theater, handsome husband of mine."
He
sat down beside her on the bed. "If you weren't with child," he rejoined,
"I just might get you with one tonight, beautiful wife of mine."
Deveren
lowered his head and kissed her. He'd meant it to be gentle--Health's Blesser
had warned that Kastara was having a difficult pregnancy and was not to be
overly excited by anything, including her husband's attention--but she snaked
her hand up behind his head and crushed his lips to hers, hungry, seeking.
She wanted him to go, yes, but like Deveren, Kastara would not enjoy the hours
apart.
Ending
the kiss, Deveren gazed down at his wife. He suddenly felt that he shouldn't
go, that he should stay here tonight, but that was foolish...wasn't it? Kastara
had reminded him that she would be well looked after for the, what, only four
hours that he would be gone.
Gently
he placed a hand on her enormous stomach, making a father's contact with the
small being housed within. Kastara placed her hand over his. He smiled down
at her, thinking that her black hair spread across the goose down pillow looked
like a dark halo, and went to the play.
* * * * *
It
was good, better than earlier rehearsals had indicated. The weather cooperated,
and the amphitheater just outside the Braedon city limits that was home to
the city's dramatic productions during the summer months was filled to capacity.
Deveren
had just settled into the second act, thoroughly engrossed, when he felt a
light tap on his shoulder. He glanced up, dragging his eyes away from the
most exciting scene in the whole play, to gaze into the concerned face of
Captain Telian Jaranis, head of the local guardsmen of Braedon and a personal
friend.
Deveren's
first thought was that the child had indeed come early. But Cassim would have
come for him, not a guardsman, and there would be joy mixed with worry on
the elderly servant's face--not this strange expression that sat upon Telian's
handsome features.
"The
baby," Deveren cried, not caring that he disturbed his fellow audience members.
"Oh, gods, she's lost the baby."
"Lord
Larath," and the formal title chilled Deveren's soul, "I'm afraid there's
been..." Telian swallowed hard, could not complete the news he had been sent
to deliver. To Deveren's horror he saw tears in the guard's eyes.
Growling
deep in his throat, Deveren sprang at the captain, clutched his tunic. Telian's
men moved, but a gesture from their commander stayed their swords. The crowd
gasped, watching the real tragedy unfolding instead of that being performed
by the actors.
"What
happened?" demanded Deveren, his teeth clenched.
"There
was an intruder," began Telian. "He broke in--we think he assumed that you
had both gone to the performance--and Kastara--"
Deveren
let Telian go and raced for the stables, taking the stone stairs that wound
between the seats two at a time. He heard the sergeant crying his name, shouting
something about how Deveren didn't want to see it, but Deveren paid no heed.
He mounted Flamedancer swiftly and rode the gelding hard, denying the words
of the guardsman as he frantically raced home and burst into his house.
Yalissa
and Cassim held one another and wept. Several guards were talking to them,
inspecting the first story floor.
"Lord
Larath--" one of them said, but Deveren ignored him and raced up the stairs.
Kastara.
Kastara. Oh, gods, please, please...
The
bedchamber was crawling with guardsmen. The place had been ransacked. Chairs
were overturned. Drawers were open. The pillows had been slit and their feathery
contents lay over everything like a bizarre dusting of snow. The guardsmen
glanced up at his entrance, and upon recognizing him moved to block his view.
But
not soon enough. Oh, dear gods, not soon enough.
She
lay where the evil intruder had left her, sprawled on the bed. Her chemise
was no longer white but red, and the wet redness clung to her breasts and
full belly in an obscene caress. The redness came from the terrible hole between
her breasts, the hole created no doubt by the same knife that had slashed
open the pillows and...
Deveren,
his knees buckling, stumbled to the bed. He felt concerned hands closing on
his shoulders and arms, trying to pull him away, but he tore loose and fell
upon his wife's corpse, sobbing hoarsely. Dimly he realized that her flesh
was cold. Any chance Health's Blesser might have had of saving the child,
if not the mother, had long since passed.
They
had been married only a year and a half. They were expecting a child. They
were supposed to have years left, decades together...and one stranger's greed
and evil had destroyed it all.
"Kastara....I'm
so sorry....I should have stayed..." She was stiff and cold in his arms as
he clutched her to him, and hard on the heels of his wild grief was a hot,
scorching rage.
One
thought hammered at his brain, and would sustain him through years to come.
Deveren Larath would find the man who had done this. He would find him, and
then, he would kill him. It was that simple.
CHAPTER ONE
1285
And among the crimes most loathed by Light's
faithful shall be the deeds done away from his face:
murder, treachery and theft.
--from "Laws of the Great God, Light"
Night
is the thief's friend. It enfolds him in its blanket of anonymity, hides the
glitter of the lethal blade, the gleam of stolen gold. Darkness is his sanctuary,
as certain a refuge for him as a temple is to the followers of its faith.
Folk who conduct their business in the daylight hours sleep in the illusion
of peace, as ignorant of the burglars who steal their coins as of the blades
that steal their lives.
Allika
sauntered carelessly down Ocean's View, the main street of Braedon, with only
the moon to light her path. Cool silver light gleamed on the dark cobblestones,
slick with the early morning dampness common to all seashore towns. Allika
was a child of the friendly night and had no fear of what might be lurking
in the shadows in the damp, pre-dawn hours. It was the day, with its dozens
of sharp-eyed vendors and, perhaps, city guards, that harbored danger. Her
doll, Miss Lally, made no protest as she bumped her rag-filled head against
the cobblestones. Allika tended to drag Miss Lally by one limb, usually a
leg.
Allika
hummed to herself as she turned left, then right, then left again, entering
the labyrinth of back alleys that were the seedier areas of Braedon. Her stomach
rumbled, providing a bass counterpoint to the girl's wordless voice. She patted
it absently. There would be food waiting at The Whale's Tail, more food than
she'd seen in a week. The group had made a wonderful haul two nights ago,
and Allika wanted to arrive before all the good things were gone.
The
Whale's Tail, a third-rate tavern on a narrow, claustrophobic street that
didn't even have a name, was the only building with its lights on. Allika
stood on her toes to reach the knob, turned it with some effort, and entered.
The
cramped, shabby tavern was not exactly a place for a seven-year-old girl,
but to Allika, it was the closest thing to a home she had ever found. She
felt utterly welcome here.
"Lo,"
she said cheerfully, grinning at the curious collection of nobles and slum
rats that considered her part of their family. "What can I have?"
"Anything
you want, Little Squirrel," invited a laughing barmaid, stepping carefully
around Allika as the girl, not really waiting for an answer, headed straight
for the nearest table. The wine-stained wooden table was piled high with bread,
cheese, meats and, most enticing of all, sweetcakes.
Even
among themselves, the thieves of the city of Braedon called one another by
special names. Allika was Little Squirrel. The barmaid/thief who greeted her
was Dove, and the bearded, heavy-set man who lifted Allika high enough so
that she could reach the beckoning sweetcakes was Bear.
Bear
now watched with amusement as Allika grew frustrated that her small hands
could only hold a limited amount of food. Attempting to grab one more item,
she dropped two.
"That'll
do you for now!" Bear laughed. "Come back when you want more."
Allika
nodded. "Is Fox coming tonight?"
"He's
been invited. But he's probably too busy with his rich friends for the likes
of us."
"Oh."
Some of the enthusiasm went out of the girl's face. She ambled behind the
bar to eat her treats safely away from adult conversation and feet.
Bear
watched her go with a gaze growing speculative. Little Squirrel was a good
little pickpocket. She had a pretty face, a sweet face that deceived her victims.
In a few more years, she'd have a figure to go with that face. Men would pay
a lot for her. He wondered why he hadn't considered prostitution before. After
all, his group didn't need to limit themselves to theft. Hadn't they just
proved that?
Bear
had held his post for a record twelve years, and the recent robberies and
murders of no fewer than three Braedon councilmen in one swift, sure highway
attack would do nothing but strengthen his position as chief wolf of a savage
pack.
The
thought of the money Allika would earn him in a few years brought a smile
to his thick lips.
"Another
round," the Bear told the tavern keeper, a balding older man called Badger.
"I see a few hard-working men whose glasses aren't full." He laughed and drained
his own mug, which was promptly refilled by the equally genial Badger. As
the "barmaids" set about the task of refilling the empty glasses, a not-terribly
sober, bone-thin man stumbled to his feet.
"A
toast t' Bear! Today the city councilmen--tomorrow, the city isself!"
As
a cheer went up, the door to the Whale's Tale splintered with a thunderous
crack. The thieves, utterly shocked, hesitated just an instant too long. Then
there was little time to act as armed men dressed in black clothing, their
faces smeared with soot, suddenly swarmed into the tavern.
Bear
overturned his table and dove behind it. A knife whistled through the air
and landed with a thunk in the wood inches from his head. Seizing two of the
many daggers he always carried with him, Bear took aim and hurled them at
the silent, black-clad attackers. One fell, the blade in his throat. His comrade
turned coolly around and lunged for Bear.
Bear
had expected more thrown daggers, not a suicidal charge, and he had only just
reached for another knife when the killer was upon him. Though he outweighed
the intruder by about fifty pounds, Bear fell beneath him. He felt cool metal
touch his throat, then a brief, searing flash of white-hot agony. Then he
felt nothing at all.
By
the time the unknown killer had dispatched the leader of the thieves, seventeen
of Bear's followers lay dead in pools of their own blood. A few had escaped,
but not many. The men in black glanced around, their breathing heavy,
searching
for any who might have escaped their notice. In a corner, Dove groaned as
she clutched her abdomen. Blood pumped through her fingers. The man who had
murdered Bear went knelt beside her and, with a quick, strong movement, snapped
her neck. The gesture was professionally executed, and might have been considered
a mercy.
The
men listened, tense. Silence.
No,
not quite. From behind the bar came a soft, faint whimpering sound. The men
snapped to attention, and two of them swiftly went to the source of the noise.
Allika
stared up at them, her eyes enormous with terror and her face moon-pale. She
clutched Miss Lally to her chest and mewled helplessly.
One
of the Black Men raised his knife. Allika remained frozen, enthralled with
horror, unable to move to flee or to defend herself.
"No,"
came a voice. "She's just a child."
"Children
grow up to be thieves."
"We
don't know that she is a thief." A second man, taller than the others, stepped
into Allika's view. "She could be just the brat of one of the women."
"We
have our orders," the first man protested.
"And
I'm giving you yours. Let her alone." The tall man knelt. Allika stared at
him, unable to stop trembling. The man's blue eyes seemed to bore straight
into her brain.
"Listen
to me, little girl. I want you to tell your friends something. Tell them that
the city will not tolerate what they did on Travsdae. Any more incidents,
and we'll come for the ones we didn't get tonight. Understand?"
Allika
nodded. The man rose and left without another word, motioning to his fellows.
She heard their retreating footsteps, then silence.
For
a long time, Allika cowered behind the bar. No guards came to investigate
the shrill screams that had filled the Whale's Tail. No concerned citizen,
roused from his slumber, came to rescue her. Finally, she realized that she
would somehow have to walk, alone, through the carnage that littered the tavern
floor. She picked up the doll and sat her on her knee.
"No
one's going to come get me," she whispered to Miss Lally.
Then
it was Miss Lally's turn to "talk" and the words came easier, crept past the
lump in her throat, when Allika was speaking for her cloth playmate.
"Come
on, Allika," she said in a high, squeaky voice, moving Miss Lally's head as
if the doll were speaking. "We have to go see Fox. Fox will know exactly what
to do!"
"But,
Miss Lally, I'm scared to go out there," she whispered in her own small voice.
"I'll
be with you, Allika. They can't hurt me, and I'll be brave enough for the
both of us!" Her voice cracked a little, and she laughed at herself. Rising
unsteadily, the girl tried to brace herself for the scene, but her young mind
was incapable of visualizing so brutal and bloody a horror. The bodies of
people she had considered family were sprawled across the floor. Blood was
everywhere. Allika choked back a sob.
They
look just like dolls, she told herself fiercely. That's all. Just like
broken dolls.
She
took one step, then another. Her poorly-shod feet squelched in blood, and
she swallowed hard. Allika did not look down, but kept her eyes on what was
left of the tavern door. Step carefully, over the limp arms, between the sprawled
legs, next to the bloody heads...broken dolls. Just broken dolls.
The
thought got her through the seemingly endless walk to the smashed door. Once
out in the cool, safe emptiness of the streets, Allika gasped the dank, brine-scented
air as if it were the sweetest fragrance in the world. Then, no longer dragging
Miss Lally but clutching her tightly, she broke into a run.
She
would deliver the Black Man's message to Fox, and Fox would know exactly what
to do.