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  KING'S MAN AND THIEF

  CHRISTIE GOLDEN

  Copyright Information

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 1997 Christie Golden

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  eISBN: 978-1-937776-14-5

  Also by Christie Golden

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  Find Christie Online

  www.ChristieGolden.com

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Epilogue

  Excerpt for Instrument of Fate

  Author Bio

  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 a 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 strong young 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 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. But this pregnancy had strained her more than it should have.

  "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.

  "The 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 ove
rly 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

  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

  1285

  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 predawn 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, sweet-cakes.

  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 hold only 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 w
ondered 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 hardworking 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 knelt beside her and, with a quick, strong movement, snapped her neck. The gesture was professionally executed, and might have been considered a mercy.