“The Black God is taking his revenge on us,” people muttered. “He’s not pleased that the Lord of Trebond brought the Duke back from his grave. You can’t go interfering with the gods without them extracting payment.” The rumors spread, and gossips began to claim that Jonathan’s reign would be cursed.
“As if I don’t have enough problems,” Jonathan told his acting prime minister, Sir Gareth (the Younger) of Naxen.
Gary looked up from the documents he studied, his chestnut eyes worried. His cousin looked worn out. “Talking to yourself again?” He said it like a joke.
“The rumors,” Jonathan explained.
“They’ll pass, particularly since there’s no proof. If the gods are angry, why would they pick on their Majesties? Why haven’t they struck Master Lord Thom down? If they want, I’ll volunteer for the duty. Thom irritates me. A good striking-down might improve him.”
“Does he look sick to you?” Jon asked abruptly. “Thom?”
Gary put down his papers. “I don’t get close enough to notice how our bold sorcerer looks, if I can help it. He never sheathes that tongue of his anymore. Why?”
“George mentioned it to me, the other day. Thom does seem thinner.”
“He’s probably losing sleep while he looks up some old spell or the other. Jon, I need your signature on these.”
Jonathan obeyed, writing his name over the royal seal on several documents. “I still can’t get used to signing as ruler of Tortall. I didn’t think I’d be King for...years.” He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Sympathetic, Gary said nothing. After a moment Jon went on. “I feel helpless. I should have done something to keep them alive.”
“What could anyone have done?” Gary asked sensibly. “Aunt Lianne never got really well after Roger’s spell was broken. And the King—” He stopped, not wanting to touch an unhealed wound.
“He killed himself,” Jon whispered. He always forced himself to see the truth, and Gary was one of the few who knew the King had deliberately killed himself. “How could he do that?”
“He loved her.” Gary’s voice was soft.
Jonathan shook his head. “Could I love anyone so much I’d forget that I have a duty to my people? George says you can smell their fear down in the Lower City. I can’t blame them for thinking there’s a curse—not with the famine last winter, and then...this. And what can I tell them that will give them confidence? They don’t know me. They didn’t really know my father.” He returned the documents to his cousin. “Once things have settled down, I’m going to visit every corner of Tortall. I won’t be a King who stays in his palace and waits for his people to come to him.” His face was set and stubborn. “I hope Alanna really can bring us the Dominion Jewel.”
“Do you think the messengers will find her?” Gary asked.
“One of them will. One of them has to.”
As Jonathan and Gary talked, George Cooper entered his mother’s house. A message from Corus had brought him home from Port Caynn at a gallop. Claw, frustrated by months of trying to kill George, had done the unthinkable and attacked a noncombatant, Eleni Cooper. Men and women loyal to George had turned back Claw’s forces, and now Mistress Cooper’s home resembled an army camp, complete with wary sentries.
When her son walked into the kitchen, Eleni was sorting and boxing the herbs she used as a healer. Pots holding some potions bubbled on the hearth, filling the air with the scent of herbs.
“It could have been worse,” she told George. “None of your people were killed, and I’m all right.”
George scowled. “This time, Mother. What of the next time, and the next? He attacked a woman who’s not sealed to the Rogue. Claw will respect none of our laws if he breaks this one. He don’t care who gets hurt. He don’t care if my Lord Provost descends on us with soldiers to rid the city of us and our wars. He cares nothin’ for them he bribes and forces to follow him. They can end on Gallows Hill, and Claw will make no move to save them. It isn’t right. He wants to be Rogue, but he won’t look after those sealed to him as is his duty.” He accepted the cup of herbal tea she poured for him and sipped it without noticing what he drank. “Our greatest advantage lay always in never causin’ enough trouble that my Lord Provost would be interested in cleanin’ the Lower City of us.”
“You’ll find a way to deal with him,” Eleni told him. She labeled a packet of comfrey leaves. “I’ve never known you to admit defeat, George.”
“Sometimes I start believin’ the rumors,” George whispered, looking tired. “Let’s face it, Mother—a man killed once should stay dead.”
Eleni sat across from him at the table. “Thank the Goddess his Gift didn’t leave the tomb with him.”
“We’ve only his word for that, and Thom’s.” George spooned honey into his tea. “I think sometimes all our troubles since October stem from those two. No, that’s unfair. I let Alanna go myself.”
“She could have waited for you in Port Caynn,” Eleni reminded him.
George smiled ruefully. “I try not to ask the impossible of her, Mother. She’s not a lass who waits at home for her man.”
“She could have returned here with you.”
George shook his head. “She didn’t wish to face our nobles again. I think her memories of Jonathan still hurt.”
“Perhaps you should go after her, then. You haven’t been yourself since she returned to the desert.” Taking one of his hands, she added, “It would please me to know you had stopped your courting of the hangman’s noose.”
George squeezed her hand. “I can’t, Mother, not yet. I’ve a few things to finish up here, first.” His face was bleak. “Besides, didn’t I tell you? The news from Maren and Sarain is she’s keepin’ company with the Shang Dragon. How can a commoner and a rogue rival the likes of the King of Tortall and Liam Ironarm?”
Eleni frowned. “It’s not like you to feel sorry for yourself, or to give up without a fight.”
George patted his mother’s cheek. “I haven’t. I’m just givin’ Alanna her head while I see to things here.” He grinned, and Eleni grinned back. Finishing his tea, he added, “Speakin’ of that, we need to take steps. Claw may be fool enough t’try this again.”
“Be careful, George,” she teased. “You risk getting tangled in the affairs of law-abiding people like me. Respectability might be catching.” Seeing he continued to frown, she said tartly, “What would you do, surround me with the King’s Own?”
He looked at her, and a wide grin spread over his face. “You know, Mother, you may have an idea there.”
A few hours later George took his mother to call on Myles of Olau in his town house. Bazhir guards admitted them and escorted them to the knight’s study. The servants hurried to bring Myles and his guests refreshments. George they knew for a frequent guest, but none of them had ever seen the woman who accompanied him. Gossip buzzed in the kitchens as the tribesmen who attended Myles looked on.
Alanna’s father looked from George to Eleni after hearing George’s request, tugging his shaggy beard. “I’d be delighted if Mistress Cooper wishes to stay in my house. I didn’t know things were so bad for you, though.”
“Claw’s not givin’ up easy,” George said grimly. “And he knows he can hurt me through Mother. Here, with all these Bazhir about, she’ll be safe. You have archers enough.”
“It comes of my daughter being the Woman Who Rides Like a Man,” Myles told Eleni, his eyes twinkling. “I adopted her, and they adopted me.” He took Eleni’s hand. “Alanna’s told me about you, and you are the mother of my friend George. I welcome the chance to do you a service, Mistress Cooper.”
She looked him over. “I hate to leave my home,” she admitted. “But while my son makes his life among rogues, I must be careful. Thank you, Sir Myles. I accept sanctuary in your house.”
“Then it must be ‘Myles.’” The knight kissed her hand.
“As I am’Eleni.’”
Myles held Eleni’s hand a moment too long, making George think. This possibi
lity hadn’t occurred to him before. A fine thing, to be gettin’ a new Pa at my age, he thought with a grin.
Thom dropped into an armchair with a sigh. The bright colors of his silk robe overwhelmed his pale face and dull copper hair, bleaching his eyes to a light amethyst. He rubbed a hand over his chapped mouth, wincing as a crack began to bleed.
Roger of Conté walked in. “So you’re back. I was just finishing my notes on Palawynn the Windwaker.”
“Thank you,” Thom rasped, watching as Roger took a seat. In contrast, the Duke was the picture of health: gleaming brown-black hair and beard, brilliant sapphire eyes, glowing skin. He didn’t look as if he’d spent ten months in a tomb, to emerge as a magicless sorcerer.
So here’s an irony, Thom thought. I raise him from death, and seven months later I look as if I just crawled out of the grave. “I just had another cozy talk with his soon-to-be Majesty,” he announced bitterly. “This time he brought my Lord Provost. I don’t like that old man—I never did.” Mimicking, he went on, “Was I still sure you have no Gift? Would I report it if you showed signs of getting it back? Have I noticed you conspiring with anyone? Do I suspect you of involvement in the King’s death? or the Queen’s? or my third cousin’s, the one who was struck by lightning!” His face turned an ugly red. “They asked me if I trust you,” he added sullenly.
Roger inspected his fingernails. “Do you?” he inquired in his melodic voice.
“Of course I don’t. I don’t trust anyone.”
“Except your sister,” Roger pointed out. “What did they say?”
“Nothing, this time,” Thom replied, puzzled. “Usually I get a lecture about my duty to spy on you and report my suspicions, but this time—nothing.”
“I see. Is there word of your twin?”
Thom glanced sharply at him, a look Roger met with a bland expression. “Jonathan’s had word from some Udayan hedgewitch,” he said reluctantly. “Sir Raoul found Alanna there. It’s possible they’ll sail to Port Caynn sometime next week.”
“You must be pleased,” Roger murmured. “Didn’t I hear somewhere she is prone to sea-sickness?”
“Very.” Thom grinned. “To think I’d forgotten that.”
“Does gossip say if she found whatever it was that took her to the Roof of the World?”
For the thousandth time Thom wondered how Roger really felt about the woman who had killed him. “If his Majesty knows, he’s keeping quiet about it. We’ll find out for ourselves, soon enough. Are you looking forward to her coming home?”
Picking up a crystal, Roger shrugged. “I plan to stay out of her way. Shall I start on the Dragon-breaker scrolls next?”
“Do as you like,” Thom snapped. “I’m not your jailer or your keeper.”
Roger smiled, turning on his charm. “I owe you a great debt, dear boy. If not for you, I’d be caught still between here and the Realms of the Dead. If I can repay you, I will.”
“They’ll never trust you,” Thom said, red with shame. “They watch everything you do for a sign you’ve regained your Gift.”
Roger stood. “Believe me, Thom—if my magic returns, you will be the very first to know.”
The Inn of the Dancing Dove was quiet. It was an hour before sunset, and the city’s rogues still prowled the streets. George looked around the empty common room, aware—not for the first time—that he no longer enjoyed being master here.
In part it was his war with Claw. It had begun when George visited Port Caynn, to put down a revolt and then to have a love affair with Alanna. Four months ago Claw had moved to become King of Thieves in George’s absence. He had used blackmail to force many to follow him, and then he’d tried to poison George. George had come to the city to save his throne, and Alanna had returned to her Bazhir. George had known then that he’d probably lost her.
When George was younger, things were different. A would-be king challenged the old one to a fight before witnesses. The winner took the throne-like chair at the Dancing Dove and a tenth of the profit on each major transaction and theft. He gave the choicest jobs and judged quarrels. He was king of the Tortallan underworld and received far more obedience than his people would ever give the King in the palace.
Claw would not fight. Claw swore loyalty to George while his men attacked George nightly. Many rogues changed their allegiance on a day-today basis, depending on who appeared to be the winner. Only George’s oldest friends kept faith with him.
The only interest George now had in the Rogue was the effort to bring Claw down. And he hoped finding out who Claw really was would help. Myles had put a man to investigating Claw’s secret past. The history the one-eyed rogue had given George on his arrival in Corus was as false as his name. In other thieves this hardly mattered, but Claw spoke and acted at times like a noble.
“Majesty!” A street boy George didn’t know rushed in. “Majesty, come quick! Claw’s took by Provost-men!” George followed the boy through the rear entrance, still deep in thought. When he emerged, a man struck him from behind, knocking him into the mud of the kitchen yard. George cleared two knives from their sheaths at his waist. This is how you pay, he thought grimly as he slashed and struck. You forget to be watchful and the Black God taps your shoulder...
He slashed again; someone screamed. The man on his back fell off. George lunged to his feet, his knives sweeping in a silver arc. Of the gang surrounding him, he took one in the throat and the next low. A fourth jumped from the kitchen roof onto his shoulders. George rammed backward into a wall to stun his assailant
A swordsman attacked. A line of pain streaked from George’s shoulder to his thigh. Gritting his teeth, George threw one of his knives, hitting the swordsman in the chest.
The kitchen yard boiled with enemies. Where were his own people? He found another of his many concealed knives and faced a man with a hand-axe. This one bellowed and charged, but four arrows cut his voice off. He never completed his attack. Black arrows rained as rearing Bazhir warhorses cut off all chances for escape. Within a second the only sound in the kitchen yard was that of the horses.
“You’re lucky I was coming to visit,” Myles said as he rode up. Dismounting, he caught George as the thief staggered. “You need a healer!”
George shook his head, as much to clear it as to say “no.” “Solom,” he muttered. Myles helped him into the Dancing Dove’s kitchen. Just inside the door they found old Solom and two serving girls, dead.
George was still recuperating in Myles’s house two days later when a servant interrupted the knight at his lunch to say Dalil al Marganit awaited him in the library. Myles put down his knife and scrubbed at his face rapidly with a napkin. Al Marganit was the man he’d put to work seeking Claw’s true identity. He’d used the little Sirajit agent before and could count on him to find out almost anything.
When Myles entered the library, the agent rose and bowed. He gestured to the bowl of fruit and the Tyran wine the servants had already brought him, saying, “I am treated like a noble in this house.”
Myles sat behind his desk with a smile. “You deserve that treatment, Dalil. Sit down, please. What have you learned for me?”
The little man took a notebook from inside his tunic and leafed through blotted pages. Nearsighted, he had to bring the pages so close to his eyes that they tickled his nose. He sneezed. “Regarding the matter of the thief Claw. Hm! Yes! Arrested by my Lord Provost’s men two years ago. Charge of suspected robbery, released for lack of evidence. Our Provost is scrupulous in such matters, unlike many in his place, as your lordship knows. Arrested five months ago in the Dock Riots, escaped. He’s now sought by Provost’s men. They do not look as hard as they might; one assumes he has paid large bribes.
“I traced the subject Claw to Vedis in Galla, where he claims to originate. He is unknown in the cities Vedis, Nenet, and Jyotis in Galla, all having large communities of thieves. Going by my lord’s guess that Claw’s accent is that of the Lake Region in Tortall and that Claw was born of nobles either legitimately
or illegitimately, I journeyed to the Lake Region with a good drawing of the subject Claw. Here is an accounting of my expenses.” He gave Myles a sheet of notepaper, which the knight barely glanced at.
Al Marganit closed the notebook and looked at Myles. “Claw is Ralon of Malven...”
Myles turned white. Another of Alanna’s enemies! No one had seen or heard from him in years. While he’d thought Claw might be illegitimate and trained by his noble-born parent’s teachers, he’d never considered the possibility that Claw was a true-born son of a noble family, hiding in the Court of the Rogue! He realized the agent was looking at him, worried. Forcing a smile, he said, “It’s all right. Go on.”
The little man shrugged and continued. Obviously Sir Myles wasn’t going to tell him why he looked as if he’d just stepped on a grave. “He is the third son of Viljo, Count of Malven, and his lady Gaylyah. He was disinherited after the attempted rape of the second daughter of the bailiff, Anala, a village in Eldorne hold. Eldorne is the neighbor of Malven.” A connection between Claw and Delia? Myles wondered. He scribbled a note to himself as Dalil continued. “The girl’s maid threw acid in his face, thereby leaving the purple scars of which you spoke, and causing him to lose an eye. If I may refresh my lord’s memory, Ralon of Malven left court at the age of fourteen, after months of feuding with the page Alan of Trebond. Or, if I may be so bold, in the matter of Alanna of Trebond and Olau.”
Myles gave an absent smile. “Though blessed few of us knew it, then. Ralon of Malven! How could I have forgotten?”
“He is well disguised, my lord. He came, as bad men will, to make his name among rogues. He battles the present King of Thieves for his throne, but he will not call for an open fight as the custom decrees. Instead, he fights with treachery. Unlike the legitimate Rogue, Ralon as Claw will hire to do murder or to ruin a good name. He will betray those who follow him.” The little man shook his head. “A noble gone bad, my lord. There’s no stopping him, not at all. He will say that he is owed something, and he has come to collect.”