King's Man and Thief (31 page)

Deveren nodded.

"It's like the bite of a snake. To cure, one must fight back with an antidote crafted with the same poison. To cure this curse, one must be made utterly evil, cease fighting it, in order to defeat it. It is called the Law of Similarities. Do you follow me?"

This time, Deveren shook his head. Her heart went out to him. Poor man. For all that he was a selfconfessed thief, he had a good soul. And all of this had shaken him profoundly—as well it might. "In essence, then, Allika and I surrendered completely to evil—and then I was able to fight back, to pull her out along with me." She wiped a hand across her brow, greasy with sweat. "We almost didn't make it."

Deveren reached for her hand, squeezed it. "You look exhausted."
"I am."

He voiced the question she was thinking but did not dare articulate. "Vervain ... if one healing does this to you ... how can you expect to cure a whole city?"

She closed her eyes, opened them. "I can't. Not with heart magic alone. But there may be something else . . . perhaps I can come up with an herbal substitute. I have been able to do that on occasion for people who are too ill to come to me themselves, or too far away for a Healer to reach." She forestalled Deveren's exclamation of relief with a wave of a weary hand. "It won't be easy. And truthfully, I am not hopeful. Even if I am successful, it will take time to create ... and the victims must be cured one by one.

Her body ached. She rubbed her stiff neck absently as she added soberly, "And such a struggle of the soul... the cure could even be fatal to some."

They sat for a few moments, weighted down with the new, dreadful knowledge, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the slumbering child and the crackling of the fire. At last Vervain struggled to her feet. "We must finish burning the clothing. Then Allika must be bathed."

At the sound of her name, the child roused, groped sleepily. "Where's Miss Lally?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"Here she is, honey," Deveren replied swiftly, reaching to pick up the rag doll from the floor where she had fallen during Allika's struggles.

"No!" Vervain's voice was sharp.
"But...?" Deveren was confused. Allika sat up, sensing trouble.

"The doll is as contaminated as her clothing. Perhaps more so," replied Vervain. "I'm sorry, Allika. But..." she glanced helplessly over at Deveren. "We have to burn her."

"B-burn her?" Allika's lower lip trembled. "But you can't! She's my baby! I have to take good care of her!"

The tone in her voice was different. Vervain noticed it immediately. This was not the wild Allika, enjoying being spiteful. These were the words of a hurt child, crying out for the thing she loved. If Deveren was right, and she was a thief, familial love must not be easy for her to come by.

But even as Vervain gazed at the doll, she saw a small insect crawling over its faded, painted face. She shuddered. It had to be destroyed.

"Allika," she said gently as Deveren still clutched the doll, "Remember how sick you were just now?" The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. "Well, Miss Lally's sick, too. But I can't heal her. And unless we put her in the fire, she'll make you sick again."

"But... Miss Lally's never gotten sick. Not even ..." Allika gasped. "I made her sick! I made her sick! I make
everyone
sick, and then they have to get burned, just like on the ship!" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

"Dear gods," said Vervain, her face going white. "She must have been on the Death Ship." What a dreadful thing that had been. She had fought to be permitted to go aboard, to try to Heal the sick, but had been denied.

"But there were no survivors," said Deveren.

'That we knew of," amended Vervain. "Allika, do you think you killed all those people? Made them sick?"

The little girl nodded wretchedly. Vervain's heart went out to her. "Oh, honey, you had nothing to do with that. And Miss Lally didn't get sick because of you, either."

"But... I saw them burn ..." She turned brimming eyes toward Vervain. "I don't want to make you or Fox sick."

"You won't," Deveren replied swiftly. "We'll be just fine."

"But . . ." Allika paused, wiped an arm across her streaming nose, and said softly, "Miss Lally makes me brave. She got me through that night when the, the black-soot men came, and when I found the rat.. ."

Deveren picked up Allika, blankets and all, and sat down with her in his lap. "Allika, you've got it backwards.
You
made
Miss Lally
brave. And now you have to make her brave enough to go into the fire so that she won't make you sick again.You know she wouldn't want that."

Allika's eyes searched Deveren's. Vervain watched them both closely. Neither spoke for a long time, but neither had to. She wondered if Deveren could see the aching need for love in the child's small face; wondered if he realized how his own softened and brightened when he was with the little girl. Somehow, sadly, she doubted it.

At last, Allika spoke, with a voice as small as the littlest breeze. "Hold her up, please, Fox." Deveren did so, taking care that the girl did not come in direct contact with the soiled, ratty doll. Allika gulped.

"Miss Lally," she said, "you're going to have to go into the fire."
"But Allika," she said again, pitching her voice high, "I don't want to."

"I don't either," sobbed the girl in her own voice, "but Fox says you're sick. And it's the only way we can both get better."

"Oh," came the higher voice of Miss Lally. "Remember what I said to you that night? They can't hurt me!"

"I love you, Miss Lally." The voice was a whisper. Allika buried her head in Deveren's chest, fighting back tears. "You can put her in the fire now, Fox. It's all right."

Gently, Deveren leaned forward, keeping a firm grip on Allika as he tossed the rag doll into the flames. It caught at once, and Miss Lally seemed to writhe as she was blackened and consumed. Allika didn't watch. She clung to Deveren as if he were life itself, and the nobleman's arms went around her to hug her just as tightly.

Vervain turned her eyes toward the burning toy, but in her mind's eye, she saw the Death Ship that Allika had escaped. She said a silent prayer to her goddess that she would be able to find a cure, and soon, else all of Braedon—perhaps all of Byrn—would only find purification through the leaping orange tongues of flame.

She may be no beauty, no goddess is she,
And all of her charms can be had for a fee;
But although her body can be bought and sold,
She's surely a whore with a heart of pure gold.
—Byrnian drinking song, The Whore with a Heart of Gold

Castyll had no idea that the majority of the people he ruled smelled quite so bad. The odor of unwashed bodies vied with the reek of meat that had turned, the choking smoke of dozens of pipes and, most unpleasant of all to the young king's innocent nose, the cloying, almost overwhelming perfumes that the prostitutes used to disguise their lack of hygiene.

Castyll had never been in better spirits.

He had to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub of laughter, chatter, and off-key music that filled the "house." 

"I hardly picture you being at home among such company," he said to Damir.

The other man smiled slightly. "I'm able to blend in where I must," he replied. "As are my men," he added with a smile. The men who had helped Castyll escape had accompanied them, and presently, with their lewd talk and loud laughter, the formerly silent killers were indistinguishable from the regulars.

"Are all these women spies?" Castyll asked, looking from one painted face to another. Some of the women were in various stages of undress, as their clients examined what they'd be paying for, and Castyll felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. He hastily returned his attention to his friend.

"Every last one, gods bless them. A few are professional spies and turned their, er, hands to this as readily as posing as lost nobility in a king's court. Others were working here before and proved to be easily bought."

"Are they ... can you trust them? And what about the men who .. . their ..."

"Their clients?" finished Damir, chuckling a little. "I think it's rather clear that they are not interested in espionage at the moment; and even if they were, they are too far away to hear our conversation. All the whores are loyal to me—and therefore to you. This is probably the safest place in Your Majesty's entire kingdom." He raised his frothing mug of beer in a salute.

Grinning, Castyll lifted his own mug and took a sip of the bitter brew. Like the smells of the place, the taste of the beer was crude and unrefined. But oh, it was a taste of true freedom for the first time in what seemed like years.

"Now tell me what has happened," Damir requested, settling back to listen.

Castyll lowered his eyes for a moment, then began. He recounted Shahil's "accidental" death. The deaths and demotions of many who were loyal to the late king. The sudden disappearance of Jemma without warning. The traditional summer holiday in Ilantha that had become a prison term. His attempt at thwarting Bhakir with the speech a few days ago, and the lucky breeze that had so obligingly snatched the scripted speech from Castyll's slack grasp. Bhakir's sudden, seemingly unfounded confidence of recent days. Castyll's conviction that there were yet many who were loyal to him, who did not see in Bhakir the monster that lurked beneath the surface. And finally, his own deep suspicion that, if he did not escape now, he never would.

Damir listened without comment, nodding now and then. Finally, when Castyll had finished, he said, "I have come to offer you asylum. My men and I can spirit you away from here by the time Bhakir knows to begin looking for you. The king of Byrn has offered his support and his army to back it up. And," Damir leaned forward, a slight smile on his thin lips, "Cimarys eagerly awaits a chance to see you again."

A lump rose in Castyll's throat. 'The letter I sent —she was not hurt by it?"
"None of us believed you wrote it of your own free will. Cimarys has kept her faith in you."

Suddenly Castyll reached across the table and grasped Damir's hand hard. "Thank the gods. Knowing that she still believes in me gives me the strength to do what I feel I must. Damir ... I thank you and your country for your offer of aid. But if I left, it would send the wrong message to my people. It would leave Bhakir utterly in power with no one to stand against him, no one to protect those who still follow me. You know how he twists things around with that cursed clever tongue of his. If I abandon my country now, he will have poisoned the people against me by the time I could return. No. I must remain here, and strike soon. He will not expect that."

Damir allowed himself another of his small, cryptic smiles. "I suspected as much. That's why I told the Blesser what I did."

"And that is?"

"After she has been interrogated with someone who can read her thoughts —and you know and I know Bhakir will locate someone who can—she will be left alone. A few hours later, Adara will have a desire to visit her sister Blesser in Jarmair. She will travel to the capital and find herself at Castle Derlian. She will ask for either Maren or Kester, and, because of her position, her request for an audience will be granted. Once she verifies that she is speaking to Maren or Kester
alone,
her memory of her night with you will come back to her—and those whom you trust will finally know your true plight."

Castyll suppressed a desire to whoop aloud with joy. Damir continued with the plan he had "outlined" to the unaware Adara, and Castyll's delight grew. When Damir had finished, Castyll could practically feel the weight of an earned crown sitting atop his brow. Damir wet his throat with the cheap ale and said something that took his drinking companion totally by surprise.

"And in the meantime, we can work on your magic skills."

Castyll blinked. If it were anyone other than Damir — Damir, who had just proved his friendship and worth a hundred times over—he would have thought the comment an insulting jibe. He replied stiffly, "I have no magical skills. The Derlian line of wizard-kings died with my father."

Damir shook his head. "Oh, no, Your Majesty."

"But... damn it, night after night I have sat and tried to light the cursed candle in my bedchamber. I failed the Test with the bracers as a child, and I've never exhibited any talent whatsoever." "Did it ever occur to you that you might be trying too hard?"

Castyll did not reply, but apparently his uncomprehending stare was answer enough. Damir continued. "I've seen this before—not connected with magic, but with marksmanship, for instance, or other skills. Sometimes, one can try too hard, and the very pressure of the effort undercuts any hope of success." He leaned forward and spoke quietly, but very intently, so that Castyll could not possibly misunderstand.

"You spoke of the breeze that so conveniently tore the speech out of your hands, when you wished not to have to deliver it."

"Well, yes, but—"

"I have seen many things in my life. I have grown to be highly suspicious of coincidences. I believe that you
called
that breeze. You were not thinking, 'if only a gust of wind, blowing at a certain speed and strength, would come right here and be of sufficient force to snatch away this speech.' You merely wanted to find an excuse to deliver your own message. And you made that excuse."

The hair along Castyll's forearms began to prickle. "Damir, you are dangling my dearest hope in front of my eyes. I hope you're not toying with me."

"I would not do such a thing."
"No," Castyll said slowly. "No, you wouldn't. I ... I hardly dared to hope any more." "Dare, Your Majesty. Dare."

The examiner sighed, removed his fingers from the young woman's temples, and told his master what he knew he did not wish to hear.

"She's telling the truth, milord. When she woke up, he was gone. She really does have no idea where he might be."