Lhind the Thief

by Sherwood Smith

  “Always,” I said, nodding. “I could tell you stories,” I began, hoping this girl would behave like most people, and be more eager to talk than to listen.

  “That’s what Vilik says! But he also says that she’s always on the move. But has she budged? Not even outside, ever since she brought that horrible witch here . . .” The girl went on babbling in a fierce whisper as I began bringing all the dishes from the window sills and cabinet tops and side tables to the buffet.

  I heard a lot about life in the mansion, but nothing about magic books, mages, or plans. When the tray was filled, I said, “How about I take it down, and you stack the rest. We’ll be faster if it’s all ready for the tray.”

  “Good idea.”

  I hefted the tray of dishes, and staggered out. What now? I paused, looking down that long hall, then spied a sideboard at the other end, under a window. A few painful steps and I eased the tray down, glancing at that closed door where presumably the duchess and the mage were still eating and talking about blood magic.

  I had not seen anything like a magic book in that room, nor had I felt anything with strong magic, aside from the mage. She couldn’t have had a book with her, though.

  That meant the book had to be somewhere else, and now was the time to search, before that precious pair went looking for their blood victim.

  I was about to try the nearest door when I heard the snick of a lock behind me. The duchess’s room! I picked up the tray again, bowed my head, and scurried down the second staircase a heartbeat before she got the door open.

  Downstairs, I entered a beautifully tiled vestibule, to be waved at by an older woman in livery. “Are you mad?” she whispered, her eyes wild. “You know she hates servants here, especially with that.” She glanced at my load of dirty dishes, placed a hand on my back, and nearly shoved me through a narrow doorway I hadn’t seen.

  I found myself in a narrow hallway of plain plaster, that smelled of stale cabbage. From the other end came kitchen noise. Propelled through by another exasperated shove, I managed not to drop my tray, though it was a near thing. I reached a long prep table, where a pair of brawny teenage boys in Wolf Gray livery took my tray and began plunging the dishes into a huge water barrel. Magic flashed, and the dishes came out dripping but clean.

  I picked up the empty tray, turned around to make another try for upstairs, when I glanced at the bread room and stuttered to a stop.

  Sporting a red cap, his hair neatly braided, was Hlanan. He motioned a couple of pages, who were carrying little cakes, looked up, and in the most natural way, exclaimed, “A page! Just what I need for the berry toppings.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  He’d gotten rid of his canvas locksmith apron and scrounged a baker’s apron from somewhere, which he’d pulled over his grubby green tunic and brown riding trousers.

  “They are searching for you,” I breathed, the moment we got inside the bread room.

  “I know that,” Hlanan whispered back, motioning the other pages out.

  “For blood magic,” I added.

  His eyes widened, and it was his turn to stumble to a stop. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I overheard—”

  “I found out—”

  We spoke at the same time, then he said grimly, “Blood magic? You had better go first.”

  As he motioned to bowls and containers of ingredients, I handed them off and told him as quickly as I could what had happened.

  He threw ingredients together in a gigantic bowl, stirring with a wooden paddle. “This is what I found out,” he murmured, glancing once over his shoulder. “She’s been hiring locals left and right. Soon’s I discovered that, I came straight here, and all I had to do was mention baking and a harassed steward pushed me in here.”

  “Why is she hiring so many people? They are going crazy in there.”

  “I noticed. Understaffed, and a terrible lack of facilities. I overheard some grousing from a couple of guards sent to chase chickens for dinner. She’s pulled in all her mercenaries not on contract, to this city. Headquarters in this house. I think they are all eating here, as she doesn’t want the Liacz force, or the locals, knowing how many of them there are. The king of Liacz issued an order limiting how many armed followers any noble can have.”

  “What can be the purpose?” I asked, and then pointed to the bowl. “Is that a big mess, or do you know what you are doing?”

  “Of course I know,” he said with dignity. “Spent a very memorable summer as a pastry prentice, just before I got snatched by the galley slavers.” He flashed a quick, distracted glance behind. “Stir the berries in after I get the sugar and the cream cheese blended,” he said in a self-important voice, as someone entered and dumped down more cakes, steaming from the bake house. “Then you decorate the top of each cake. . . . She’s gone. As for Morith’s purpose, I suspect she’s going to make a try for the empty throne of Namas Ilan—”

  “Hlanan, she is hunting for you. To use your blood. You have to get out of here, and let me—”

  “Not leaving without you,” he said evenly.

  “She doesn’t know who I—”

  “Berries are in that container over there. Stir them gently, or they break and turn the icing purple.” I knew from his change in tone that someone new had entered. Lightning flickered in the window, then the entire house shook under a crash of thunder.

  Hlanan gave the topping a last stir, then motioned for the berries. As he gently blended them in, he said over his shoulder to the two kitchen helpers about to depart. “I need to see to the pastries. You two can top these cakes here, while the new ones cool. All you do is dip this spoon like this, and use this spoon to drop the topping onto the cake, then you swirl . . .”

  In three steps, the little cake was perfectly topped. He demonstrated with three more cakes, set them on a plate, then handed a spoon to each page. He picked up the plate and started toward the door. “Eat the failures and hide the evidence,” he said kindly, as the pages brightened. “But do hurry. You’ll have a horde of hungry soldiers howling soon.”

  Another crash of thunder rattled the windows, followed by a sudden roar. The rain was here.

  Hlanan bore his plate out into the kitchen, moving with an air of purpose. I trailed him. He looked around, then spotted one of the servant halls beyond a swinging door. We slipped inside, and he held the door shut.

  He pulled off the red hat and we looked at each other. His gaze searched mine, eyes flicking back and forth, as if he wished he could hear my thoughts. He passed his free hand over his face, fingers tense, then dropped his hand. “We need to find that book.”

  “Before that mage does her demonstration,” I said, and then the truth hit me, sudden as the thunder shaking the house. “You don’t mean to search. You mean, go take it.”

  Hlanan’s face was bleak in the shadowy light. I could feel him poised to action, to risk, no throw away his life, to prevent a greater evil.

  “At least let me try,” I said, pointing at my page’s outfit. “I can poke my head in, see what faces us, and then we can figure out how to do it.” I reached to take the plate of cakes. “This will be my excuse to go upstairs.”

  “All right,” he said, relinquishing the plate. “And while you do that, I will scout a bit. The duchess cannot be in two places at once.”

  I didn’t see what use that would be, as the book was our goal, and we were pretty sure we knew where it was. But I would have agreed to anything, as long as he stayed away from the duchess and her sanguinary plans for him.

  I ducked through the door, mentally opening the pinhole as I made my way to the backstairs. Faryana?

  That book must be captured and destroyed! I will help you. Call to me the moment you see it.

  I ran up the front stairs to the main hall. Hlanan vanished in the direction of the back stairs.

  When I got to the next floor, I found the hallway deserted, and all doors shut. I listened at the one where I’d first seen the duchess and the mage. No soun
ds.

  I pulled my lockpicking tool from my stash, used it on the old-fashioned lock, then cracked the door open, ready to fling my plate of cakes if anyone charged at me—but the room was empty. And there on the sideboard were the trays, with dirty dishes still uncollected. Better than cakes! I set those on the sideboard, picked up one of the empty silver trays, and kept going, wondering which doors to try.

  I found them by the feel of magic, a cold tingle that made me shiver in spite of the hot, breathless air that the storm battering the mansion had not begun to cool. I sensed the magic from around the corner and down a hall I hadn’t seen before.

  I paused at the corner and took a quick, furtive peek—and recoiled. Before a thick door stood a pair of heavily armed Wolf Grays.

  Before I could dither more than a few fast heartbeats, the clatter of approaching footsteps emerged out of the muted thunder and the distant roar of rain.

  I sprinted to the other end of the hall opposite the stairway, and ducked behind the sideboard under the round window as a new pair of burly Gray Wolves appeared, dragging a starved-looking, bruised, filthy young man between them, his hands tied behind his back. This had to be the prisoner who was about to be sacrificed. His greasy hair hung before pain-hazed eyes.

  My heart tried to crowd up into my throat, and I forced myself to pop up and run behind them. When they halted at the door, I lurked behind the largest guard, holding my tray. I formulated an excuse—Someone sent me to collect dishes—as one guard gave a double-rap at the door.

  The door opened and a guard peered out, then motioned the three in. She scowled at me, then looked inside at the duchess. “There’s a page with a dish tray.”

  “Who sent a page?” came the impatient voice, tight with anger or stress.

  “The steward thought there were dirty dishes to collect,” I mewed.

  “The morning parlor, idiot,” the duchess yelled from inside, and the door closed in my face.

  But not before I’d seen past the drooping head of the prisoner: two guards; the duchess, wearing riding clothes of gray and red, with vambraces on her forearms, and a gold-handled dagger at her trim waist; the purple-robed mage, and in her hand, a slim book.

  Did you see that, Faryana?

  Yes. If you see it, I can see it. Can you get closer?

  I can’t get in—oh, wait.

  I knew where the magic room was, now. Beyond it lay the second garden. And though the storm still pelted down, it was the front of the building, facing the street, that was getting the worst of it.

  I sped downstairs, clutched my tray against me as an excuse to pass unmolested through the kitchen, and used it as a rain canopy as I splashed out into the garden. The shoes were promptly ruined, so I kicked them off and ran barefoot.

  Keeping below the sight of the windows, I ran along until I found the wall below the window of the magic chamber, then I peered up past my tray. No convenient tree, but the wall was festooned with aromatic honeysuckle, its tiny flowers glimmering against the dark ivy leaves it fought for precedence. The ivy, tenacious in its grip, seemed to be winning the silent war.

  What to do with the tray? There was no help for it. I had to leave it behind. Shoving it into a bush in case someone came prowling around, I rubbed my hands, tested the ivy, and finding it firm, I swarmed up as quick as a cat.

  The magic chamber had a bank of windows, the outer two of which had been set slightly ajar for air. Easing up to one, I peered inside.

  The mage’s voice was clear in the heavy air, a deliberate, sonorous roll of ancient-sounding words as the guards held the prisoner pressed to a table, his neck exposed. The duchess had pulled her knife. It seemed that she wanted the pleasure of slitting the prisoner’s throat when prompted.

  My skin crawled . . . and my cap nearly flew off. The hank of horse hair flapped around my face as I forced my hair to still.

  She’s creating the boundary, Faryana said. Let’s break it.

  My magic was all natural, which meant I drew by will on the same mysterious force that these mages called through their words and signs. Under Faryana’s direction, I squinted into the room, perceiving a faint greenish shimmer around the table where the sacrifice victim lay. Imagining a sword made of sunlight, I cut through the shimmer . . .

  The mage faltered, frowned, and the muscles in her neck tightened. I ducked before she could look up. I counted to five, then cautiously lifted my head again.

  “The lightning must be interfering,” she said. “Are you certain you will not wait for this demonstration?”

  “We’re here. And I’m bored,” the duchess replied. “I want to see if this thing is worth what I paid to get it.”

  The mage began again, her voice even slower, her pronunciation crisp, her signs carefully drawn in the air, so carefully I perceived a faint train of greenish light trailing in the air after her hand.

  Once again I imagined my sun-sword, and drew a circle around her hand.

  The mage lowered the book, frowned, then once again, I sensed she was about to look around. “The magic breaking my spell originates from that window.”

  “So it is the storm, then?” the duchess asked.

  The mage didn’t reply. I counted to five again, looked up . . .

  Right into her astonished face. Then her eyes narrowed angrily.

  She’s going to strike you, Faryana cried.

  I could see that. Quick as thought, I hummed under my breath. The only way I can explain voice-cast is to compare it to singing a song. You hear the proper notes, and match your voice to them.

  “Silence,” I said, just as her lips parted. Though I’d heard very little from her, it had been enough to get her own distinctive personal range, and pitch my voice to smite straight to her nerves.

  Her face suffused with color, then contorted with anger and fear. Her mouth worked, but her voice was frozen.

  She is still dangerous, Faryana said.

  “Still as stone,” I commanded.

  The duchess’s face appeared at the window. Her eyes widened in fury. She slammed the window casement open so hard that it crashed into the wall, sending glass flying, and snatched at me.

  I ducked out of her reach, my hands clutching desperately on the ivy.

  She yelled over her shoulder, “Get that brat out of the tree!”

  As she did, I lunged up, reached through the open window, and snatched the book out of the mage’s hands. Then ducked down again, the duchess’s hands grasping a hair’s breadth from my head.

  “Get my sword,” she commanded, without taking her gaze from me.

  “If you do,” I said, brandishing the book, “I will set this on fire.” As a herd of guards splashed into the garden below me, I added, “If they come anywhere near me.”

  The duchess motioned to the three guards who’d just reached the ivy and were about to pull themselves up. “Wait there.” She smiled. “I can wait. Can you? Who are you?”

  If ever there was a time for a lie, this was it. “I was sent by Emperor Jardis Dhes-Andis,” I said.

  Acid laughter rolled through my mind. Faryana was gone. I froze, witless with fear. I’d left the pinhole open too long! Dhes-Andis’s mental voice, still chuckling, sounded like distant thunder on the mental plane. I will back your efforts, my inventive little apprentice, as long as you keep hold of that book. I want that book—

  I slammed the mental door.

  Think! I could make a shimmer, but that would not get me away from the ivy. Could I turn into a bird? I was desperate enough—as if to torture me with what I could not have, I heard Tir’s frantic cry somewhere above the roof. I tried loosening my grip, but my body in its sodden clothing was too heavy. I knew I’d drop like a stone.

  Then the shivery sound of a sword sliding from a sheath rang through the air, and the duchess said, “I am tired of waiting. Give me the book, and you can return to the emperor with my compliments. In fact, since you are obviously better than this fool, why don’t you come inside and take her place? Gi
ve me what I want, and the book is yours. And as much gold as you ask.”

  She struck the frozen mage with the hilt of her sword, and the woman thumped to the floor, helpless to break her fall.

  Idiot, I thought at myself. I cleared my throat, then hummed to get her register, but a warning tightening of my own throat caused me to wheeze in a startled breath. Curling one hand, I surreptitiously tried a tiny shimmer, a flower among the ivy leaves.

  Nothing.

  Dhes-Andis had done something to my magic. So that was why he said he’d help me—he wanted me relying on him for magic, and had gotten my register. Meanwhile, he was probably sending minions . . .

  But he was a continent away, and my immediate danger was here before my eyes. What to do? What to do?

  Lie my way out of it, of course.

  Trying for as callous a tone as hers, I said, “I can drop you with a word. So no tricks.”

  The duchess gave a breathless laugh, and backed up. “All right, all right.” She snapped her fingers, and a guard presented a gem-chased sword sheath. The duchess gave me an amused glance, and returned the sword to its sheath.

  My fingers had nearly gone numb. I loosened my death grip, and climbed the rest of the way to the window, then slid inside, careful to keep my back to the open air. She and her three guards (one had been sent to fetch that crowd down below, getting rained on as they glared up at the windows) and the prisoner, still lying awkwardly on the table with his arms painfully bent under him, all watched me as I made a business of carefully opening the book.

  I looked down . . . at illegible scribbles. While traveling on the ship I’d become proficient at the alphabet that Chelan, Allendi, and Elras shared, but this one? I had no hope of reading it.

  Not that I would have.

  “I need to make the boundary,” I said in an important voice. At my feet, the mage uttered a faint groan. I feared that my spell was already wearing off.

  I cleared my throat again, attempting to shape a voice-cast, but once again, my neck tightened on the inside. I coughed, and looked down at the book.