"Well, good evening, Captain—or, good morning, rather. No, thank you, the walk'll help sober me up. Besides, my luck wasn't good at the tables tonight—I'd make a poor target for a thief." "As you wish, sir."
Deveren continued on, humming a little to himself as the temples gave way to long stretches of flat, unused land. The wind shifted, bringing a sudden blessing of fragrance to Deveren's nostrils. He smiled. He knew he was close to home when he could smell the Garden.
Planted by and paid for by all the residents of the Square, as the most fashionable area of Braedon was known, the wall-encircled Garden was an enormous plot of land filled to bursting with the most beautiful and fragrant of flowers. There were many varieties of trees and shrubs as well, even a complex maze in which it was very easy to get lost—if one didn't know the secret. Deveren thought it a terrible shame that it wasn't open to the public; apparently, the richer folk of the city felt that the enjoyment of such beauty, bought and paid for by them, should be limited to them.
His own house, a comparatively modest stone-and-wood construction with only two stories and a tiny stable, was the first one on the right. The small patch of ground surrounding it boasted a wrought iron fence that bore the Larath family crest, and those who had visited Deveren knew that the deceptively humble home was furnished in a most tasteful and gracious manner. And Deveren's home had windows—thick, wavy-glassed windows. That alone marked him as a man of means.
Deveren's brisk stride faltered, stopped.
One of the first-floor windows had light streaming through it. He had left the house dark. One of the servants? Deveren quickly dismissed that thought. They'd have left for their own domiciles hours ago.
A sudden dewing of cold sweat dotted his forehead. He'd been wrong. It seemed as though the assassins hadn't finished their job, after all.
"How art thou my brother?" asked the Sun.
"Thy light is not like mine, nor thy magics."
"Ah, " replied the Moon, "yet we both rule the skies, and shine our lights upon Mankind, do we not?"
—from Tales of the Sun and Moon
For a long moment, Deveren simply stood, staring foolishly. One hand tightly gripped the cold metal of the wrought iron fence. Reason seeped back into his paralyzed limbs and he sprinted around the side, heading for the back of his house, away from the room with the lighted candle. Quickly he climbed the fence and jumped down, landing as quietly as possible in the soft grass. Hidden in the shadows now, he hastened for the shelter of the building's walls, flattening himself against the cold stone, listening, his body taut as a bowstring. Perspiration dampened his face. There was no sound, no evidence that he had been noticed.
The room to his immediate left was his library. It was dark, and far enough back from the lighted window so that even if he made sounds, he wouldn't be heard. But Deveren intended to make no noise. He crouched beneath the wooden sill and reached his hand up, pressing two fingers against the window. Deveren concentrated on stilling his racing thoughts, and visualized the window unlocking. He did not have to raise his head to know that his meager hand magic hadn't worked. Had he been able to lay even a single finger on the lock itself, he could have managed it. As it was, the additional barrier of the glass, frail as it was, was an obstacle that prevented him from opening the window.
He dropped down again and pressed his back flat against the stone. Sometimes, Deveren thought with a hint of disgust, plain old burglary was more efficient than magic. He fumbled in his pouch. Deveren had a bad habit of never emptying his pouch from night to night or theft to theft. Had he not already been a thief, he would, contrary to what he had told the guards, have been a prime candidate for robbery; the deceptively simple pouch he wore at his side was crammed full of valuables.
Now his bad habit had become an unexpected blessing. Fumbling blindly in the pouch, his questing fingers found a ring whose stone was not embedded in its golden circle but rather jutted up proudly. He closed his eyes in relief. Stones set in such a manner, Deveren knew, were most usually diamonds. He pulled the ring out, then turned to the window.
Working by touch, he pressed back the soft gold prongs that held the gem in place and removed it. Cupping the diamond in his palm, he felt for its sharpest edge. He held the ring in his left hand and, holding the small jewel carefully between his right thumb and forefinger, reinserted the diamond into its setting so that the sharp edge faced out. Then he pressed closed the golden prongs. Grasping the ring, Deveren cut a small hole in the glass, just large enough to put his two fingers through. He pushed gently, and the small circle of cut glass dropped soundlessly to the rushes beneath.
Deveren bent forward and placed his ear to the hole, listening. Silence. He smiled, his confidence returning. If he, a skilled thief, couldn't even break into his own house without being detected, he had no right to be leader. He reached in, unlocked the window in a totally nonmagical manner, and eased it open.
He was halfway inside the room when the voice nearly stopped his heart.
"If only our mother were here to see this."
Deveren knew that voice. Relief flooded him, replaced almost immediately by a combination of delight and irritation.
"Damn you, Damir," he growled, grinning, as he swung his other leg into the room, "I have cats that are noisier than you!"
Damir had already lit a candle —the light that had “warned” Deveren about possible “assassins”-and by its flickering light Deveren saw that his older brother was laughing at the trick he'd played. The two embraced with real warmth, although Deveren did land a good-natured punch to Damir's thin arm.
There was little about their appearances to alert the casual stranger that there was so intimate a bond between the two men. Deveren, boyish and well built, stood a good four inches taller than his "big" brother. His hair was a light brown, only slightly touched with gray, while Damir's thinning locks were a deep, rich mink color. Damir was slight and elegant; Deveren, slender, but athletic. Only their hands, with their long, thin fingers, and their eyes, a bright, knowing hazel, were the same. That, and their quick minds.
"Do you know how much a pane of glass costs?" said Deveren.
"I'll pay for it," Damir offered. "It's worth every penny just to have watched you sneaking about like that. You're slipping, Dev. If I had been waiting to kill you, I'd hardly have lit a candle to announce my presence."
Deveren was so embarrassed he actually blushed. Of course. Any other night, he would have realized that at once. But so soon after the massacre, he was understandably on edge.
"Pray tell, Ambassador Larath, what brings you to the fair city of Braedon?" he asked Damir, changing the subject as he led his brother out from the library into the dining area. "I'd heard that King Emrys wasn't doing so well, and thought you wouldn't be too far from his side. Come on, let's get something to eat. Sudden fear followed by intense pleasure always makes me hungry."
He reached for a bowl of fruit on the table in the dining room, seizing a fragrant peach and biting into it. Deveren's dining room would more appropriately be called a hall. The table at which he plopped himself so casually would easily sit twenty-four, and it stretched grandly into the superbly decorated room. Despite the fine old furniture, the lovely statues of elf-maidens and noble warriors, and the high, vaulted ceiling, the place, like its owner, was friendly rather than overwhelming. Damir, used to even more sumptuous surroundings than his brother's abode, followed his sibling's relaxed example. He eased into a plush chair, studied the bowl of fruit, and helped himself to a bunch of grapes.
"Actually," Damir began slowly, fingering the fruit rather than plucking it,
"you
bring me here."
Deveren nearly choked on his peach. "Me?" he mumbled. "Sweet Health, don't tell me your spies know about the election already!" Damir's position was, officially, that of an ambassador. Deveren knew that his brother's actual role in the function of government was far more important and far more dangerous. Damir had at his command a vast network of spies—though he liked to use the term "information gatherers."
Damir arched a thin, aristocratic eyebrow. "Election? Why, no. You'll have to tell me all about it later. No, I came to make sure that you were ... all right." His eyes, bright as a sparrow's, met his brother's evenly.
All traces of mirth and welcome vanished from Deveren's countenance. He was silent for a long, tense moment, and when he at last spoke his voice was like ice.
"If you ordered that raid on the Whale's Tail Desdae night," he said slowly, "then you are not welcome in my home."
"Of course not, Dev!" The undisguised hurt and anger in Damir's normally modulated voice was proof enough for Deveren, and his posture relaxed. "You know I have no say in matters of that nature."
"But you knew it was going to happen, didn't you?"
His thin face still tense, Damir nodded. Deveren swore.
"I have no control over... that branch of the government," Damir continued. "I didn't even know who was ... who had survived and who hadn't. I wanted to send you a mind-warning, but—" "Braedon is too far away," Deveren finished his brother's sentence. He knew the limits of Damir's mind magic. Damir nodded, his eyes searching Deveren's.
"Gods, Dev, I couldn't even sense if you were still alive! I left home the minute I knew what they were planning. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered!"
Deveren looked down at his reflection in the highly polished wood of the table. "Sorry. But Damir—I lost friends that night."
The older man sighed and popped a grape into his mouth. "I realize that," he said in a calmer voice, after he had swallowed. "You wouldn't have if you'd stayed away from that group as I advised you to."
Deveren suddenly seemed to develop a great interest in finishing his peach and fell silent. Damir narrowed his eyes. Deveren could practically see wheels turning in his brother's head as realization dawned on Damir's face.
"Election," he said softly. "Please, Dev, tell me that what I'm thinking is wrong. Tell me you've been voted head of the local garden appreciation guild, or something like that."
"Sorry." He wasn't.
Damir sighed and rubbed his face for a long moment. "Deveren," he said gently, "it won't bring Kastara back."
The younger man flinched ever so slightly. Even now, seven years later, any mention of her name was painful to him. After Kastara's brutal murder, Deveren had gone slightly mad. The law officials could find nothing. Deveren became a constant fixture at the guard's offices, haranguing them daily, desperate for any sort of hope at which to grasp. Even Damir, with his vast network of spies and informants at hand, couldn't help.
When four months went by and they were still no closer to solving the crime, the law gradually began to cut back on the amount of time, money, and manpower it was pouring into the case. So it was that Deveren had initially turned to the other side of the law for justice, seeking out and joining the thieves of the city. He had hoped to uncover Kastara's killer, and exact retribution. "I know it won't bring her back," Deveren said after a moment. "I never did find her murderer, and I don't think I ever will. I'm reconciled to that."
Damir frowned, honestly puzzled. "Then why ..."
"In my years of involvement with the thieves, I've learned something about them," Deveren continued. "Some who call themselves thieves are killers, but not all of them. While some look out only for themselves, others care about the group as a whole and as individuals. I've discovered that there's a sense of community, of, of—
family
in this group. Damir—among the people at the Whale's Tail was a little girl. Did you know that?"
Damir nodded. "I understand that the leader of the raid spared her life. His orders were to kill everyone in the building, but he hadn't expected to find children. When I heard, I was glad the man was wise enough not to follow those particular orders to the letter."
"So am I," said Deveren fervently. "She's a charming little thing —reminds me of your Talitha when she was that age. As leader, I have an enormous influence over how this group develops over the next few years."
A smile tugged at the diplomat's lips. "Ah, yes, the thieves of Braedon. They run a charity auction and orphanage—always donate to worthy causes. Did I mention the Fund for Wayward Kittens?"
The humor was misplaced, and a cloud came over Deveren's face. "A lot of people in that group are hungry. A lot of people are desperately poor. And you know as well as I do that if you really wanted to wipe out crime, you'd do it. One more 'purge' like the Whale's Tail and you'd have the rest of us. And speaking of crime," and Deveren's voice cracked like a whip, "I think the planned murder of seventeen people without benefit of trial isn't exactly
legal!"
He rose and grabbed a bottle of wine that was on the sideboard. The bottle, an excellent vintage imported from Mhar, had been opened for a dinner earlier that week and the cork replaced. Deveren glanced about for something with which to extract the cork, found nothing immediately to hand, gripped the cork with his teeth and tugged. There was a slight pop. He poured himself a goblet of wine with a hand that trembled, and drained the glass.
Still angry, he placed the bottle on the table with a thump. Damir regarded it for a moment, arching a thin eyebrow. Then, to his brother's astonishment, he took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank directly from the neck.
Deveren stared, then broke into a loud, whooping laugh. The sight of formal, elegant Damir, who knew which eating implement went with which course and what side the wine was served on, guzzling like a sewer drunk was too ludicrous for any other reaction. Neatly, without spilling a drop, Damir finished his drink and set the bottle down on the table. He smiled slightly.