Honor Among Thieves (8 page)

“But the scars . . .”

She glanced down at her forearm. Pale silver lines
ran the length of her arm, crisscrossing older scars she’d won in
battle. None of the marks were unsightly. Elves healed quickly and
valued signs of valor.

“What about them?”

He shook his head in astonishment. “Most women of my
acquaintance—and most men, for that matter—would consider such
marks disfiguring.”

“You don’t know many warriors, then.”

“All the more reason for me to secure your services.
I promise you, this arrangement would suit us both,” he said
earnestly. “Whatever you sought to achieve in the forest is lost.
With me, you can gain wealth, a position of command, whatever you
desire.”

“What if my desire is to return to my people?”

“Only to die over some failed plot or unrealized
ambition?” He shook his head. “You might think honor requires this
of you, but isn’t there greater honor to be found in keeping your
people safe and at peace? I’m offering you an alliance that puts in
your hands all the resources necessary to protect the forest from
those who would despoil it.

“And who knows?” He turned his hands palms up and
spread them out wide in the manner of one presenting vast
possibilities. “In time, you might achieve whatever it was that
brought you to trial.”

“Or prove myself innocent.”

“Or that,” he said in a bland tone that contradicted
his words.

Honor studied him for any sign of duplicity. To all
appearances, he sincerely believed her a traitor who might be won
to his cause. Why, she could not begin to fathom.

“I will think on it,” she said. “May I go?”

He swept one hand toward the door in a graceful arc.
Honor rose, grateful to find her body back under her command.

Somehow she found her way through the walls of books
and out onto the street. She walked for a long time, playing the
human’s words over and over in her mind.

He could be right. It was possible. If for some
reason Asteria thought her capable of treachery, the Thorn would
confirm her suspicions.

On the other hand, it was possible that someone had
accused Honor of wrongdoing, and Asteria knew that only the
ceremonial dagger would prove her innocence beyond doubt.

The more Honor thought about this, the more likely it
seemed.

There was, of course, one other possibility:

Rhendish was lying to her because he wanted the Thorn
for himself. What better way to learn of its power than placing it
in the hands of an elf he so obviously controlled?

And if he was lying about this, what else might he be
keeping from her?

She turned off the street and walled through the arch
leading into a city park, one of the small green spaces that dotted
the city. Perhaps standing under the shade of these trees would
lend her a moment of peace and clarity.

The tumult of her thoughts began to wane as she
walked along the paths. A lone songbird called from a butternut
tree. She stopped and whistled back the little fragment of melody.
The bird flitted down to a lower branch and hopped closer, its
little head tipped inquisitively to one side.

She held out one hand and repeated the bird’s call.
Tiny black eyes regarded her as if taking her measure. Honor called
again. The bird leaped into the air and winged off toward the far
end of the park.

Honor stood in stunned silence. No forest bird had
ever fled from her before.

“Have you city birds forgotten the elves?” she said
softly. “Or has Rhendish changed me beyond recognition?”

She headed toward a small man-made pond, half
wondering if the reflection in it would be familiar. A stand of
meadow flowers near the pond caught her eye. She moved over for a
closer look.

Most of the flowers were yellow and blue blossoms
common to the northland meadows. A pang of remorse struck Honor as
she remembered the sprite Rhendish had forced her to kill. She
glanced down at the palm of her sword hand, half expecting to see
it stained with gold and blue dust from tiny crushed wings.

Honor pushed this thought aside. Some instinct had
drawn her to the meadow flowers. She closed her eyes and stilled
her mind.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell upon a patch
of wild carrots. The large, lacy white flowers swayed on delicate
stalks longer than Honor’s arm.

A light began to dawn in the back of Honor’s mind.
She didn’t dare hope that the idea taking shape would gain her her
freedom, but it might enable her to do her duty.

She stooped and snapped off several of the flowers
near the base of the stem. Bouquet in hand, she headed toward the
Fox Den, and the fey-touched madman who might become her most
valuable ally.

* * *

Fox sat on the edge of Avidan’s worktable, eyeing a
vase of meadow flowers with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
That the alchemist would keep a bouquet of wild carrot blossoms in
his workroom was strange enough. His motivation for keeping them in
blood red liquid was something Fox didn’t care to contemplate.
Whatever the reason, the color had worked its way up the narrow
stems, dying the lacy white blossoms a deep shade of rose.

The alchemist sprinkled a handful of green crystals
into a bowl of water and attacked them with a whisk. Crystals broke
apart, sending blood-red streaks swirling through the water.

Fox was beginning to sense a disturbing theme.

“Should I be worried about that concoction?”

“It stings a little, if that’s a concern,” Avidan
said without looking up from his work. “This is an aqueous solution
of mercury. It prevents wounds from going septic.”

The alchemist’s tone was confident and his movements
precise and practiced. At moments like this, Fox could envision
Avidan leading a successful foray into Muldonny’s mansion. They
would walk in through the well-guarded gates without a qualm,
Avidan would discourse learnedly with the adept, Fox would switch
the daggers, and they’d be back on Sevrin’s main island before the
taverns opened.

“The mercury solution is also effective in early
stages of the pox,” Avidan said. “Naturally, it must be applied
directly to the site of initial contact.”

This image effectively dispelled Fox’s optimistic
daydream. “That’s more information than I need.”

“I have heard, however, that some women find the
bright orange color a bit off-putting.”

“To say nothing of the pox,” Fox muttered.

“Of course, you’ll need a larger codpiece to
accommodate the bandages.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Avidan lifted the bowl. “Are you sure? I have
extra.”

The thief sighed. “Let’s just get this done.”

The alchemist dipped a cloth into the bowl and
clucked like a brooding hen as he dabbed rust-colored solution onto
Fox’s forehead.

“What did you do to anger her?”

“Who?”

“The fairy, of course.”

Fox’s laughter was cut short by a stab of pain from
his split lip. He winced and prodded at it with one finger.

“Vishni didn’t do this.”

“If you say so.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but realized the
alchemist was probably more right than wrong.

“I will go alone to meet with Vishni and the
alchemist whose place I am to take,” Avidan said.

The combined weight of everything that could go wrong
with that plan hit Fox like a fist to the gut. “That’s not
necessary.”

Avidan reached for a polished metal tray and held it
in front of Fox’s face. The thief grimaced at the reflected
image.

“It’s necessary,” Avidan said. “You cannot walk into
a fest hall looking as you do. Since there is no crime in Sevrin,
people might wonder how you found yourself on the wrong side of a
brawl. You can stay with Delgar and help our new friend return to
his lodgings.”

Fox accepted this with a nod. Playing the role of a
charming courtesan should offer Vishni enough diversion to keep her
attention from straying. And if it did not, they had a reliable
escape route in place.

“Just so you know, I’m not letting you walk into
Muldonny’s alone.”

“I will make unguents to darken your skin and hide
most of the damage to your face. In the meanwhile, this will
help.”

Avidan reached into a metal box and removed a cube of
raw meat. A droplet of blood splashed onto the alchemist’s
worktable.

Fox leaned away from the offered tidbit. “No
thanks.”

“Are you sure? Vishni stole this from the butcher on
Redcloak Street. He has an ice house. It’s good and cold.”

“I’ve already eaten.”

The alchemist’s lip curled in disgust. “You’re not
supposed to eat it. You’re supposed to put it on your black eye.
The cold will bring down the swelling.”

“Why didn’t she just steal some ice? Wouldn’t that
work as well?”

“Better,” Avidan said. “But there is very little food
value in ice.”

Fox started to respond, decided it wasn’t worth it,
and hopped off the table. He took the cube of raw steak and pressed
it to his swollen eye as he left for saner regions. The remedy
might be disgusting, but he found it surprisingly soothing.

The gathering room with its ever-shifting mirror was
empty. Fox slumped into a chair and stared at an image of pale sand
curling around an inlet of bright turquoise sea.

Since he was alone, he had no need to temper his
fascination with the mirror. He devoured images of woodland
waterfalls, distant cities glimpsed from mountaintops, painted
deserts. His favorite scene showed him a single wolf silhouetted
against a rising moon, muzzle lifted in song.

There had been no wolves on the islands of Sevrin for
a hundred generations. No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to see
a wolf.

No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to see many
things.

Fox’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. None of
his friends, not even Delgar, knew of his longing for distant
places. But his work was here. So was his mother, even if she no
longer knew him.

He suddenly remembered the locket she’d handed him
days earlier. A quick pat-down of his pockets yielded nothing but a
stab of panic.

The green tunic he wore for his Gatherer disguise
came to mind. He tossed the meat into the hearth and hurried to the
little stone-walled room where he slept and stored his things.

A bit of rummaging in his chest yielded the gaudy
tunic. To his relief, the locket was tucked in the hip pocket.

He flipped it open and looked inside, expecting the
usual lock of hair or miniature painting of some long-dead
relative. Instead, a design of intertwined runes surrounded a name
everyone in the northlands knew:

Eldreath.

Eldreath, the sorcerer whose long and brutal reign
had given way to the age of adepts and alchemy.

In Fox’s opinion, the new regime wasn’t much of an
improvement. This belief stood at the core of his work, his life.
He’d never thought to question why he felt as he did.

Until now.

He had grown up hearing stories of the sorcerer’s
atrocities. But those were just stories. No matter what Vishni
said, no story could be as powerful as experience.

Fox had seen the work of the adepts and their
Gatherers with his own eyes. He’d seen his village attacked, his
home burned. He and his mother had been captured, dragged to the
city, questioned, tortured. What became of his father was something
he might never learn.

He didn’t remember much from those terrible days, but
he doubted anyone could forget the tall, blond-bearded Gatherer who
kept asking about a bloodline.

Fox had always assumed these questions sprung from
his mother’s reputation as a green witch. Magic tended to run in
families, so of course the adepts would want to round up her
relatives. But the locket opened a new door of possibility.

His mother told him it had been passed down in the
family. Eldreath had lived long past the normally allotted span. If
he gave the locket to some lady as a token, she might have passed
it down through several generations before it came into Fox’s
hands.

“A sorcerer’s bloodline,” Fox murmured, unsure
whether he should be appalled or thrilled.

This explained Rhendish’s abiding interest in
capturing Fox, and the near-captivity his mother endured within the
walls of the adept’s domain. It also explained Fox’s passion for
magic.

It might even explain his personal vendetta against
the adepts and his determination to take part in their overthrow.
According to Vishni’s stories, and for that matter nearly every
other tale Fox had heard, blood and destiny were inseparable.

The only outlying fact was his total lack of any
magical talent.

This revelation was too big for one mind to
encompass. Fox pushed himself out of the chair and went looking for
Delgar.

The heat hit him while he was still several paces
away from the dwarf’s workroom. He plunged through a cloud of steam
and stepped into the stone chamber.

In the center of the room, flames danced in a stone
fire pit. The dwarf sat in a stout wooden chair, his stocky form
draped in a protective leather apron.

Delgar picked up a narrow bar of glass with an iron
tong and dipped it into the fire. He drew one of several long,
slender tools from the coals, wiped it clean on the damp rag draped
over his leather-clad lap, and began to shape the blade. A few
strokes, then back into the fire went the glass and the iron. Back
and forth, bit by steady bit, the dagger took shape.

“This is like watching a river eroding stone,” Fox
said.

Delgar glanced up. “I’m about to add the handle.
Watch if you want, but don’t expect scintillating
conversation.”

“In this workshop?”

The dwarf snorted and reached for a delicately etched
cross guard. He lowered a metal dropper into a beaker sitting amid
glowing coals and measured a few drops of clear liquid onto the
hilt. Before the glass could cool, he pressed the heated blade
against the guard and held it in place.