King's Man and Thief (36 page)

Another tug on his hand, more insistent. A second time Deveren bent to listen to the girl, and a second time the spontaneous roar from the crowd drowned out anything she might have needed to say. "Hail to the Master!" came a cry that was picked up and repeated. "Hail to the Master!"

The crowd rippled, moved to let this year's Master of Mischief enter. Deveren couldn't quite see who it was, as the figure was on the short side and the traditional heavy fur robes—the contrast between the hot weather and the heavy robes was meant to point up the foolishness of the whole thing—turned his shape into a large, furry, brown lump.

Then the Master of Mischief turned. He was smiling and waving the customary Rod of Ridicule gaily, but Deveren's heart turned to ice within his chest.

It was Khem.

The selection was random. Anybody who wasn't in a high position in the local or national government and who didn't own land was eligible to be chosen for the role of Master of Mischief. But Khem—a thief who had been spotted by Allika in the act of helping to bring a curse upon Braedon— here, now, in this position ... The hairs along Deveren's arms crawled and he rubbed them unconsciously. Like his brother, Deveren Larath had seen too much to believe in coincidence.

"O-ho, what do we have here?" said Khem, peering at the bound diplomats. His scarred face crinkled into a smile.

"Oh, Mischief Master, sir, we be humble folkses, we does," drawled "Damir." "Does that not be right, mates?" He craned his neck to look at the rest of the councilmen, grinning. They mumbled appropriate responses.

"Humble folkses, eh?" mused Khem, drumming his fingers against his chin. "Hmmm. Here, catch!" And he threw his Rod of Ridicule at Damir.

The blue-and-red painted staff caught Kyle's temple. The actor gasped, then pretended to swoon.

"This'll bring him around!" another man cried, pouring his beer in Kyle's face. "Damir" merely opened his mouth and swallowed the amber liquid. Another point scored; the crowd applauded. Deveren had to admit, the actor was handling his audience perfectly.

"But is it not a crime to drink an' pass out in the streets?" queried a young woman that Deveren recognized as one of the barmaids at Jankiss's tavern. Her words brought a wave of laughter, for if they had been true, approximately two-thirds of Braedon's population would presently be in the stocks.

"Why, so it is!" Khem exclaimed. He whirled and pointed directly at a surprised Captain Jaranis. "Place that miscreant in the stocks!"

Jaranis seemed totally taken aback. Then he winced, as from some inner twinge of pain, and stepped over to Kyle. "In you go, you lawbreaker you!"

Deveren suddenly found it hard to breathe.
Not Telian ...

He noticed a trace of worry on Damir's —Kyle's—face, and winked, hoping desperately the performer would see him. The last thing Deveren needed right now was for Kyle to panic, even though Deveren was beginning to think that there was a damn good reason for panic. The stocks bound a criminal's hands and feet. For a short time, it wouldn't hurt, but after a while it became agony. And there was something terribly frightening, at least to Deveren, about being so helpless.

Allika's tug on his hand almost made Deveren stumble. He bent a third time. She stood on her toes, made a cup of her hands, and said into his ear, "Vervain says she's got enough tincture to distribute! What would you like me to do?"

Deveren did not reply at once. He watched two of Jaranis's men untie Kyle's hands and lead him to the stocks, located on a raised dais in the middle of the street. He had just opened his mouth to answer the girl when a piece of rotting fruit sailed through the air and splattered in Kyle's face.

Deveren tensed.
That
had never happened before.

There was a stunned silence, then someone guffawed. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd, and as more fruit and vegetables followed, it relaxed into more comfortable mirth. Khem scampered onto the scaffolding, turning a cartwheel that went awry as he got tangled up in his long robes.

"Master of Mischief!" came a cry from the crowd. "Rhyme us! Rhyme us!"

A swell of approval greeted this suggestion. The Rhyme was a pivotal part of the festival, where the Master had to make up nonsensical verses on the spot. The Hound grinned.

"Hmm, hmm ..." And then he smiled, put his hands behind him, and cleared his throat.

An honorable fellow is Deveren,
Lord Larath is always endeavorin'
To clean up the street
Which would be quite the feat
Save his own neck he seems to be severin'.

The crowd murmured, confused. They didn't get the joke, but some of them laughed a little anyway. Khem stared right at Deveren, his lips curved in a knowing smile. It was a threat, plain and simple, and Deveren stared back. Almost, it seemed, he could count the minutes left to him. He leaned down with unnatural calmness and said to Allika, "Go find Pedric. We'll need his help."

She nodded, then slipped away, vanishing amid the sea of legs. Meanwhile, Khem had found another victim for his wit. He turned back to Jaranis, pointed at him, and intoned:

Of guardsmen, Jaranis is master. Wrong-doers are fast, but he's faster. But who harks to rules
When they run with the fools? Tonight could bring utter disaster.

There was no laughter this time. Something was definitely going on. With a little jump, the Master of Mischief turned to the imprisoned actor:

A diplomat of great renown, Damir finds his world upside down! Here bound in the stocks,
He's a target for rocks,
And aid shall not come from this town!

He executed a flip, and disappeared into the crowd. Then, to Deveren's horror, a fist-sized stone slammed against the stocks.

"No!" he shrieked. He headed at once toward the dais. Almost immediately a shower of stones pelted the trapped Kyle. The actor cried out, clenching his fists reflexively and trying to duck his head. Deveren had never known so many people could be in one place. Wherever he tried to push through, he seemed to meet with resistance. And then, his horror escalating, he realized he wasn't imagining it. People
were
deliberately moving in his way, preventing him from reaching "Damir." Growling angrily, Deveren began to punch his way through.

One rock shattered Kyle's nose, and blood cascaded down. Another caught him in the eye. Deveren wasn't even aware of his own voice screaming out futile protests.

Suddenly he hit the earth hard. A heavyset, obviously poor older man pummelled him violently. "Filthy bastard!" he cried. "Damn rich nobles like you take it all..." The man was hauled off of Deveren by a guardsman, who in turn had to defend himself as the man attacked him, crying, "You're supposed to protect us . . . damn city isn't safe...."

Deveren struggled to his feet, almost falling as bodies slammed into him. It had become a fullfledged riot now. He stumbled and fell again. Fear shot through him as he clawed his way upright. If he fell again, he might not get up.

He could hear Kyle's sobbing. At last he was there. Fighting the press of bodies all around him, Deveren struggled onto the platform, getting first one leg up and then the other. He struggled to his feet and lowered his head, ramming the guardsman who challenged him. With an "oof!" the man stumbled backward, falling into the maddened crowd and disappearing from Deveren's view—but not before Deveren had managed to seize the key ring from the man's pouch.

Blocking the rain of stones with his own body, he hurried to free Kyle. The actor's face was like so much raw meat now. Blood streamed freely and there were huge, almost fist-sized lumps on his head. Deveren could even see shards of broken bone. He gasped as a stone landed squarely on his spine, sending waves of pain quivering through his body. He inserted the key, turned it, and pushed up the stocks that bound the actor's arms. Deveren gathered the limp form in his arms.

He feared he was too late. One eye stared up at him sightlessly; the other was swollen shut by an enormous purple bruise. If the actor survived, Deveren suspected he would be blind. Then Kyle's chest hitched, slightly. He was still alive. Deveren had to get him to Vervain.

Biting back his anger, and aware that the stones had stopped being hurled at him, Deveren stood up. Lost in their own vented rage, the rioters had forgotten about him and "Damir." Their targets now were one another. Deveren scanned the crowd for a possible friendly face and a chance to escape.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vandaris struggling toward him. Compassion and caring was on the old man's face, not in the least obscured by the ridiculous painted grin. Deveren was moved. Suddenly, as if Vandaris's feet had been cut out from underneath him, he fell, to be swallowed up by the manic crowd. The last thing Deveren saw of him was horror as his hands reached to clutch his abdomen, as if he were in terrible pain.

No!
mourned Deveren.
Not Vandaris, too ...

"Dev!" The word was shouted, but even so, Deveren barely heard it over the shrieks of the maddened revelers. Pedric, with Allika perched on his shoulders out of the way of trampling feet, stood at the foot of the dais. "I've got about four dozen doses of the tincture with me right now. Is Damir all right?"

"I'm going to take him to Vervain," Deveren yelled back. He moved over toward the younger thief, threw himself on his stomach, and spoke urgently into the young man's ear.

"Vandaris is sick," he said. Pedric groaned in sympathy. "I saw him go down right over there. He was trying to help—it got him right away. Get him—take him to Rabbit's. Make him take the tincture. Then work with him—we need to dose the guards and then we'll have a prayer of getting this under control, at least a little. I'll get more doses when I see Vervain, and try to catch up with you. Understand?"

Pedric nodded. Allika did too, her little face sober and comprehending. Impulsively, Deveren reached out and fluffed her short hair. She smiled, just a little. Then they were gone.

For just a moment, Deveren watched the insane crowd. They were ripping one another to bits. Gods, did they stand any kind of a chance against this madness? Two thieves, an exhausted Healer, and a little girl. He closed his eyes briefly, but refused to surrender to despair. He would fight this. He would fight this with everything he had in him, down to the last drop of blood. He had to believe there was some way to win, to bring Braedon's people back to their senses. Because if he did not believe it, then the last candle would have gone out indeed, the last hope would be exhausted, and the world would fall to chaos and insanity.

He returned to Kyle and lifted the injured man as gently as he could, then scanned the crowd for the place of safest passage.

Far from the scenes of wanton violence, Marrika sat on the beach near the Braedon port. By the moonlight, she whittled a chunk of whalebone, humming tunelessly.

She had been where the action was, about four hours ago. She had seen the crowds go mad; had watched Khem orchestrate the murder of Damir Larath with pride and satisfaction. Deveren's murder, too, would come tonight. He who had thought to lead the thieves. Thieves who had turned to her, instead.

All things came to her now.
Scritch, scritch.
The carving took shape beneath her skilled fingers.

Now the night belonged to the organized. The infiltration had begun. The murders were no longer random, but carefully calculated, as professionals took control of the town. Some of them were from Mhar. But some were her own people.

Scritch, scritch.
It was clear now what she was carving. The moonlight glinted on the white bone. A skull grinned back at her. Gently, she kissed the smooth white surface, then continued. There came a brief flicker of light, almost subtle enough to be missed. Marrika rose, absently brushing sand from her buttocks. Her gaze focused, concentrated.

The signal came again. It was time.

Gleefully Marrika picked up the dark lantern and flashed the signal to the ships approaching, mere faint shapes on the horizon.

The answering signal came again, and Marrika's heart began to beat faster. They were coming. Khem had not lied. They were really coming! The approaching Mharian navy and their pirate friends would meet with no resistance. The guards had been among the first to succumb to the curse.

She shivered in the night air, and hugged herself, jumping up and down with delight. At last, she would fully come into her own. Master of thieves, master—no, damn it,
mistress
—of Braedon, maybe all of Byrn.

She glanced down at the skull she still held clutched in one hand. Softly, she whispered to it, "Soon it will be Deveren's."

Your horse is strong beneath you,
Your heart is brave and bold,
So ride, O ride, brave Deveren
Before the night is old.
Ride hard and strong and swiftly,
For in your hands resides
The fate of every Byrnian
And Mharian besides.

—Chorus, Byrnian ballad, Deveren's Ride

Deveren had had nightmares in which he ran as fast as he could, exerting every muscle, fighting to make progress, and never seemed to be able to move a single step. He felt as if he were trapped now in one of those nightmares. The crowd was thick, and both Deveren and the injured man he bore received more blows. Deveren was jostled back and forth, sometimes losing his direction altogether. He fought back panic. He was one of a few sane people still left in the town, and he knew he needed to use that coolness to his advantage
—
or die, trampled and torn to bits by the rabid mob.

Kyle grew heavier and heavier a weight with each passing moment. Deveren's muscles trembled with exhaustion, but he stubbornly clung to his precious burden. Finally the crowd thinned just a little and he was able to make progress. And when he at last spotted the temple of Health, with its lamps burning in the window and a sense of peace about it sharply at odds with the lunacy running rampant through the streets, Deveren almost sobbed with relief.