King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

"I don't-"

  Across the whimpering girl's body, Vervain grasped Deveren's wrist in a grip that hurt. "Do not lie to me, Deveren. This is more important than you know. What is her name- Crow? Raven? Squirrel? Blackbird?"

  Deveren stared open-mouthed. "She… I call her Little Squirrel. But how did you know?" Her hands crept up to her mouth and her eyes squeezed shut against tears. "Vervain…" said Deveren helplessly. First Allika acting strangely, now Vervain.

  "I had a dream. A vision," she said at last, attempting to compose herself. "It featured a fox, a little chattering squirrel, and other animals-including a rat. The dream went on to depict the statue of Health weeping tears of blood. The head toppled to the floor, still weeping. It was… horrible. I knew that something dreadful was going to happen, but I didn't know what. Still, I began to prepare- lay aside special herbs, spend more hours resting and in meditation. Now you have come, Fox, with the Little Squirrel. And your enemy is a rat sent by Vengeance."

  Deveren's legs felt weak. He groped for the bench and sat heavily. "She's different," he said, more to himself than to Vervain. "She used to be such a sweet little girl. Full of mischief, yes, but not of spite. Now she's angry, and hostile, and… oh, Vervain, I barely recognize her." He looked up at Vervain's tear-streaked face. "Can you help her?" he asked, his voice soft and pleading. "Her life is difficult enough as it is."

  "And why is that, Deveren?" asked Vervain with equal softness, as though she already knew. "She's a thief," he replied, his gaze locked with hers. "And so am I." The words came effortlessly, simply. And Vervain merely nodded her understanding.

  "I will do what I can. But I am afraid your chattering Little Squirrel may be a harbinger of something terrible- something beyond even a Healer's ability to heal. Remove the cauldron and stoke the fire."

  Deveren did as he was told. Using a cloth, he lifted the heavy cauldron off the direct flames, smiling despite the desperateness of the situation as the wonderful fragrance teased his nostrils. He placed two more logs on the low-burning fire and poked it till it sparked and began to crackle. Meanwhile, Vervain undressed the child. Deveren turned to see if he could help.

  Allika was like a mad thing, fighting the Healer every inch of the way. "I hate you!" she screamed, and catching sight of Deveren, snarled, "I hate you too, Fox!"

  The words were like a blow. Deveren gasped softly. Vervain saw his distress and said, "She is not rational, Deveren. Pay no heed. It is the sickness in her speaking. Come help me get these things off her." As the two of them wrestled with Allika's filthy clothes, reduced finally to literally tearing them off the struggling child, Deveren saw that she was covered with tiny bites. Small insects scurried for the darkness as the warm, concealing clothes were lifted away.

  "Poor little thing, she's absolutely crawling with…" the Healer's voice broke off. "Dear gods. Deveren, burn these. Every scrap of clothing that's touched her. We'll have to bum the blankets, too, and perhaps our own clothes."

  Deveren didn't understand, but he recognized the Healer's absolute authority in this matter and did not question. He immediately tossed the filthy rags onto the fire. They began to smoke and an oily, unpleasant scent crept into the room.

  "Don't burn me!" Allika's shriek of terror ripped Deveren's heart.

  "No, child, just your clothes," assured Vervain. "Now we're going to clean you up-make you fresh again, hmmm?"

  Allika began to cry. Not the vexed, petulant wails that Deveren had heard before earlier tonight, but deep, heart-wrenching sobs. Deveren held her down, gazing at her white, naked body covered with sores where she'd scratched herself raw. Vervain took another cloth from the pot and began to wash Allika. "Thank Health that my Tenders are home with their families." She spared Deveren a glance. "I was expecting something to happen tonight, you see. And I didn't want my little Tenders caught up in it."

  The filth had been washed off Allika's body now, but the little red bites remained. Vervain excused herself and hastened out into the garden. Deveren continued to hold Allika, wiping away the tears that seemed endless. Vervain returned, carrying a basket laden with a small, weedlike plant. She began busily to crush the plant, rubbing Allika's body with it.

  "What's that?" Deveren asked.

  "Vervain. It should calm her." She spared a glance for Deveren, and smiled a little. "I come from a long, unbroken line of Healers. My mother named us after healing herbs. I was lucky. My sisters are Agrimony and Chamomile."

  Deveren laughed, and the Healer's smile grew. Their eyes met, and suddenly Deveren realized that for the first time he was seeing the Healer without her severe red wimple. Her hair was a rich, warm brown, and tumbled down her shoulders and back. There was a little gray winding its way through the thick curls, but there was no hint of aging on the open, warm face and kind eyes. She was, he realized, beautiful.

  Allika's hitching breath brought his attention back to the matter at hand. She did seem to be calming down somewhat. Vervain's… vervain… would appear to have the desired effect. He stroked her wet cheek.

  "Now I must try to Heal her. Deveren, many times I deal with things I do not understand. This is one of those times." Her voice and mien were calm, almost tranquil. Deveren marveled at it. "If she has picked up a disease from Vengeance, the attempt to Heal her may kill us both. You need to know that before I begin. If something happens, you must somehow get Lord Vandaris and the council to agree to a quarantine. If it is so powerful that I cannot contain or cure it, then we must protect the rest of the country from contamination. Do you understand?"

  Her words were almost like a physical blow. He'd simply assumed that Vervain would be able to take care of Allika. With a sinking realization, Deveren felt like someone who had set out to cross the ocean in a small dinghy, and only now, with land out of sight, fully realized the danger.

  "Yes. I understand." His own voice betrayed him. Spontaneously, he reached out his hand to her. She took it, squeezed it tightly. Then, taking a deep breath, she sat down on a stool next to the bed, closed her eyes, and placed her hands on Allika's chest.

  Healing.

  It was a simple word, really. A simple concept. And often, it was her bone-deep comprehension of the utter simplicity of the act that enabled Vervain to accomplish what some called "miracles." She did not dare hope for a miracle tonight.

  Her hands felt the chilliness of Allika's damp flesh. She spread her fingers; reached deeper, for the warmth of the small organ that pumped life. She murmured a brief prayer: Lady Health, guide me to accomplish your healing.

  Her hands suddenly felt hot. The healing energy had responded to her call-a good sign. Heartened, Vervain directed the heat inward, into the chilled child's soul.

  And gasped.

  Her healing energy slammed up against an icy blockage. She recognized some of it — the natural fear of the sick or injured. That, she knew how to penetrate. But there was something else, something cold and dark and deadly. Its chill began to seep into her own hands, trying to turn the tables on her Healing.

  She frowned, eyes still closed. No. She could not let it. Again the healing energy welled, came to her call, and again she sent it forward. She felt the child beneath her hands jump at the attack of heat, writhe, trying to break contact. Then Allika ceased flailing. Vervain suspected Deveren had stepped in, helped quiet the girl. Thank Health for him. He was steadier than most she had known.

  This time Vervain burst through the blockage, and it was as if she found herself adrift in a raging river. Her breath caught, froze, and she forced herself to breathe as she was mentally buffeted by something that had its talons in the child. Briefly, Vervain had an image of twisting; of something being turned inside out. And again the darkness brushed her healing warmth. This time, Vervain knew what it was, and the thought alarmed her.

  Not disease. Curse.

  It was the perfect opposite of all she had been taught. Dimly, she recalled learning how to summon such things in order to know how to dispel them. Tears formed beneath her close
d lids. She recalled Jemma teaching… what? Gods, it was so long ago, she had been barely ten years old! Hard to recall, now that everything depended on her memory…

  Yes. A third time Vervain called for the great power of Healing. This time, she remembered what to do.

  She surrendered.

  Surrendered herself and Allika utterly to the power of evil that raged within the girl's spirit. Felt the cold seize her own heart, felt the mammoth hate that seemed far too large to be housed in the tiny body of a seven-year-old child turn eagerly upon this new, sweet prey. Vervain saw her own thoughts and memories being twisted, tainted, as the curse tried to corrupt her as it had Allika. But it failed. She was a Blesser of Health, and the goddess's claim upon her loyalty and spirit stood firm against the buffeting of the curse. Angrily it receded, renewing its attack upon the more vulnerable little girl. Vervain felt herself drowning in the dark, black cold…

  … and a fourth time called forth the red warmth of Healing. She remembered how to direct it. It scattered the bearer (bearers, thousands of them) of the dark curse with the force of a rechanneled river. Vervain began to pant with exhaustion, dimly felt sweat gather at her hairline, trickle down the back of her neck. Her body began to quiver. No… no, she had to stay strong, had to keep fighting!

  The power was ebbing, cooling. She reached for it a fifth time, something she had never done before, and found no trace of the gift left. Her own strength of will had to do. Vervain gritted her teeth and continued fighting, and at last the black darkness ebbed, went away, like a shadow before a growing light.

  She opened her eyes. Allika lay quietly, as exhausted by the struggle as she was. Vervain realized she was trembling. Deveren went to her, steadied her with strong arms on her shoulders. "What… is it all right?"

  She couldn't speak, only nodded. Gods, she was tired. Vervain licked her lips and pointed feebly to a pitcher on the sideboard. "Some water… please…"

  Deveren leaped up and poured her a goblet, sloshing the water on her red dress as he handed it to her. His hazel eyes were concerned. Vervain gulped greedily. Never had water tasted so sweet. She sighed, waited for her racing heart to still, then spoke.

  "Allika was cursed," she said. Deveren gasped, then glanced back up at the girl who was sleeping soundly. "I was able to cure her, do not worry. It was spread by the rat… or, rather, by the rat's own vermin."

  "The fleas," breathed Deveren. "I had the rat killed, but…"

  "Exactly. The fleas have no doubt spread." She took a deep breath, drank some more water, and continued. "I had to surrender to the curse in order to defeat it. Deveren, this is… I can hardly even articulate it. It… it likes darkness. It likes to make people do evil things. They will thrive on cruelty. Goodness, kind deeds-that weakens the victims, makes them hurt. Did you notice every time Allika cooperated, seemed sorry for what she had done, she was stricken with pain?"

  Deveren nodded.

  "It's like the bite of a snake. To cure, one must fight back with an antidote crafted with the same poison. To cure this curse, one must be made utterly evil, cease fighting it, in order to defeat it. It is called the Law of Similarities. Do you follow me?"

  This time, Deveren shook his head. Her heart went out to him. Poor man. For all that he was a selfconfessed thief, he had a good soul. And all of this had shaken him profoundly-as well it might. "In essence, then, Allika and I surrendered completely to evil-and then I was able to fight back, to pull her out along with me." She wiped a hand across her brow, greasy with sweat. "We almost didn't make it."

  Deveren reached for her hand, squeezed it. "You look exhausted."

  "I am."

  He voiced the question she was thinking but did not dare articulate. "Vervain… if one healing does this to you… how can you expect to cure a whole city?"

  She closed her eyes, opened them. "I can't. Not with heart magic alone. But there may be something else… perhaps I can come up with an herbal substitute. I have been able to do that on occasion for people who are too ill to come to me themselves, or too far away for a Healer to reach." She forestalled Deveren's exclamation of relief with a wave of a weary hand. "It won't be easy. And truthfully, I am not hopeful. Even if I am successful, it will take time to create… and the victims must be cured one by one.

  Her body ached. She rubbed her stiff neck absently as she added soberly, "And such a struggle of the soul… the cure could even be fatal to some."

  They sat for a few moments, weighted down with the new, dreadful knowledge, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the slumbering child and the crackling of the fire. At last Vervain struggled to her feet. "We must finish burning the clothing. Then Allika must be bathed."

  At the sound of her name, the child roused, groped sleepily. "Where's Miss Lally?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

  "Here she is, honey," Deveren replied swiftly, reaching to pick up the rag doll from the floor where she had fallen during Allika's struggles.

  "No!" Vervain's voice was sharp.

  "But…?" Deveren was confused. Allika sat up, sensing trouble.

  "The doll is as contaminated as her clothing. Perhaps more so," replied Vervain. "I'm sorry, Allika. But…" she glanced helplessly over at Deveren. "We have to burn her."

  "B-burn her?" Allika's lower lip trembled. "But you can't! She's my baby! I have to take good care of her!"

  The tone in her voice was different. Vervain noticed it immediately. This was not the wild Allika, enjoying being spiteful. These were the words of a hurt child, crying out for the thing she loved. If Deveren was right, and she was a thief, familial love must not be easy for her to come by.

  But even as Vervain gazed at the doll, she saw a small insect crawling over its faded, painted face. She shuddered. It had to be destroyed.

  "Allika," she said gently as Deveren still clutched the doll, "Remember how sick you were just now?" The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. "Well, Miss Lally's sick, too. But I can't heal her. And unless we put her in the fire, she'll make you sick again."

  "But… Miss Lally's never gotten sick. Not even…" Allika gasped. "I made her sick! I made her sick! I make everyone sick, and then they have to get burned, just like on the ship!" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  "Dear gods," said Vervain, her face going white. "She must have been on the Death Ship." What a dreadful thing that had been. She had fought to be permitted to go aboard, to try to Heal the sick, but had been denied.

  "But there were no survivors," said Deveren.

  'That we knew of," amended Vervain. "Allika, do you think you killed all those people? Made them sick?"

  The little girl nodded wretchedly. Vervain's heart went out to her. "Oh, honey, you had nothing to do with that. And Miss Lally didn't get sick because of you, either."

  "But… I saw them burn…" She turned brimming eyes toward Vervain. "I don't want to make you or Fox sick."

  "You won't," Deveren replied swiftly. "We'll be just fine."

  "But…" Allika paused, wiped an arm across her streaming nose, and said softly, "Miss Lally makes me brave. She got me through that night when the, the black-soot men came, and when I found the rat…"

  Deveren picked up Allika, blankets and all, and sat down with her in his lap. "Allika, you've got it backwards. You made Miss Lally brave. And now you have to make her brave enough to go into the fire so that she won't make you sick again. You know she wouldn't want that."

  Allika's eyes searched Deveren's. Vervain watched them both closely. Neither spoke for a long time, but neither had to. She wondered if Deveren could see the aching need for love in the child's small face; wondered if he realized how his own softened and brightened when he was with the little girl. Somehow, sadly, she doubted it.

  At last, Allika spoke, with a voice as small as the littlest breeze. "Hold her up, please, Fox." Deveren did so, taking care that the girl did not come in direct contact with the soiled, ratty doll. Allika gulped.

  "Miss Lally," she said, "you're going
to have to go into the fire."

  "But Allika," she said again, pitching her voice high, "I don't want to."

  "I don't either," sobbed the girl in her own voice, "but Fox says you're sick. And it's the only way we can both get better."

  "Oh," came the higher voice of Miss Lally. "Remember what I said to you that night? They can't hurt me!"

  "I love you, Miss Lally." The voice was a whisper. Allika buried her head in Deveren's chest, fighting back tears. "You can put her in the fire now, Fox. It's all right."

  Gently, Deveren leaned forward, keeping a firm grip on Allika as he tossed the rag doll into the flames. It caught at once, and Miss Lally seemed to writhe as she was blackened and consumed. Allika didn't watch. She clung to Deveren as if he were life itself, and the nobleman's arms went around her to hug her just as tightly.

  Vervain turned her eyes toward the burning toy, but in her mind's eye, she saw the Death Ship that Allika had escaped. She said a silent prayer to her goddess that she would be able to find a cure, and soon, else all of Braedon-perhaps all of Byrn-would only find purification through the leaping orange tongues of flame.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She may be no beauty, no goddess is she,

  And all of her charms can be had for a fee;

  But although her body can be bought and sold,

  She's surely a whore with a heart of pure gold.

  — Byrnian drinking song, The Whore with a Heart of Gold

  Castyll had no idea that the majority of the people he ruled smelled quite so bad. The odor of unwashed bodies vied with the reek of meat that had turned, the choking smoke of dozens of pipes and, most unpleasant of all to the young king's innocent nose, the cloying, almost overwhelming perfumes that the prostitutes used to disguise their lack of hygiene.

  Castyll had never been in better spirits.

  He had to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub of laughter, chatter, and off-key music that filled the "house."

  "I hardly picture you being at home among such company," he said to Damir.