Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  In fact, apart from the Right Hand and the Knowledge, none of the Cabal appeared to be even remotely interested in the proceedings.

  Lord’s balls!

  Erik filled his chest with a preparatory breath and Prue whirled about in his arms, slapping a small hand over his mouth. “No,” she hissed, her eyes gem-bright with urgency. “They’ll throw us out if you speak out of turn. You’ve got to trust me, Erik. This is why I’m here.”

  Trust me. Trust me.

  The echoes of his own desperate voice.

  Swallowing, Erik nodded.

  Absently, Prue patted his cheek. “Good.”

  Rummaging in her belt pouch, she produced a coin, a full cred it looked like, and a small notebook with a pencil attached. Busily, she scribbled a few lines in her neat upright script. Tearing off the page, she wrapped it around the chit and handed the whole thing, together with the money, to Dai.

  Dai raised a brow. “The Queen’s Money? You sure, Mistress?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a little push. “Go, go!”

  “Ah well,” said Dai. “Isn’t it lucky Rhiomard owes me?” He melted into the crowd.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two women having been replaced with a plump, disgruntled tavern keeper, Erik saw Dai standing behind a fluted pillar on the other side of the Hall, deep in conversation with the much-decorated sergeant. Rhiomard, presumably.

  The sergeant flicked a glance in their direction, and his hard mouth tipped up at the sight of Prue. One eyelid fluttered shut in an unmistakable wink. Erik tightened his grip. “A client?” he growled.

  Prue shot him a dark glance. “Yes,” she said. “Of The Garden. Not that it’s any business of yours.” She pressed her lips together, spots of color on her cheeks.

  Unobtrusively, the sergeant drew the Money’s clerk aside for a low-voiced discussion in the shadows.

  From behind, Dai murmured, “Any minute now. Watch.”

  The clerk handed a small square of paper to the Queen’s Money. Erik saw the minister’s brows rise, his mouth twitch. He raised his head. “Enough,” said the Money, and the hum of the crowd ceased.

  The tavern keeper barely paused for breath. “But, Noblelord,” he babbled, “all I ask for is an extra month. No more. It’s not unreasonable, not with the way business . . .”

  Catching sight of the Money’s face, the man trailed off. In the sudden silence, he wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong.” Without turning his head, the minister held out a hand, and the clerk placed a sheet of paper in it. “You own not one, but three taverns in the Melting Pot?” He glanced at the figures.

  “Yes, Noblelord.” The man wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  The Queen’s Money took a small silver gavel from his clerk and poised it over the dark pattern inlaid in the surface of the table, directly in front of him. A five-pointed star, a Pentacle. “You own them outright?”

  The tavern keeper’s face took on a greenish hue. “Yes, Noblelord, but—”

  The sound of the gavel striking the Pentacle echoed through the Audience Hall, pure and vast, like the voice of the space winds. Gods, the dark material was novarine! Erik shut his mouth with a snap. Eight Pentacles around the table, each carved from the heartstuff of an exploded star. The table was worth more than the entire Hall and every person in it.

  “Petition denied.” The Money’s eyes gleamed. “Nonetheless, my friend, I will help you.”

  The tavern owner did not look in the least comforted.

  Turning to his clerk, the official said, “Make a note to send a tax officer to assist this citizen with his books. Every day until it is done and Her Majesty is paid the money she’s owed.”

  Someone in the crowd snickered, another laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw a young mother pull a bag of candied fruit from her pocket and pop a piece into the mouth of the child in her arms.

  “Silence!” roared Sergeant Rhiomard. “Judgment has been made.”

  “For the gods’ sake, man,” snapped the City, leaning forward. “Get on with it. Who’s next?”

  Rhiomard glanced at the Money and received a barely perceptible nod in return. “Mistress Prue McGuire!”

  Uproar.

  The Necromancer raised his silver gavel. He hesitated. Oh no, this situation had too much delicious potential to spoil. Gently, he laid the pretty thing aside. So small to wield such power. But the merest fraction in comparison with what awaited him.

  An old woman ducked under the rope, brandishing a chit. “But I’m next!” she shrieked. “Me!”

  The burly fellow standing behind her exploded into action. “Be damned if you are!” Reaching over the old woman’s head, he tweaked the chit out of her fingers.

  The pandemonium doubled. Heads and shoulders undulated like a multicolored crop stirred by the wind. The air resounded with catcalls, whistles and hoots. A scuffle broke out. At Rhiomard’s gesture, three guardsmen bore down on it, full of grim purpose.

  The Necromancer barely noticed. Surely, he’d seen the woman who faced the table before? And the big fellow standing foursquare at her side? The third man, the lithe, dark one they’d left behind the rope, wasn’t familiar. Interesting, this one didn’t so much as glance at the table. He watched the crowd with unwinking attention.

  A hired sword. Not important. The Necromancer dismissed him.

  He was still puzzling over the other two when the blast of air Magick rolled over him. Startled, he pulled in a breath and the freshness, the clean power of it, seared his nostrils, made his chest tighten. When he hissed between clenched teeth, the clerk said, “Is all well, Noblelord?”

  “Water,” croaked the Necromancer, and a guardsman leaped to do his bidding.

  Well, well. A mystery solved. The little whore from The Garden and the singer whose name he’d forgotten, if he’d ever known it. The stink of air Magick was all over them, as if they’d bathed in it. It made him want to puke.

  His pulse rate slowly returning to normal, the Necromancer leaned back in his carved chair. Truly, the Dark Arts were powerful. His will was powerful. A smile curved his lips. There she was, his air witch, her head tilted at a proud angle as she delivered herself into his hands. So self-possessed that it seemed the threatening weight of the Cabal’s authority, the restless crowd, meant nothing to her. But one hand was hidden in her skirts, gripping the paw of the brute beside her. They were lovers, that much was obvious from the way they stood, each secure in the other’s space, a united front against the world. The connection between them might be a problem, but no matter, he’d contrive.

  Licking his lips, the Necromancer prepared to be entertained.

  “Mistress McGuire,” said the Queen’s Money, showing a lot of teeth. “We haven’t met, but I believe we have corresponded. Extensively.”

  Prue inclined her head, gracious as a queen. “Indeed we have, Noblelord. And I thank you for your kind offer.”

  Over the buzz of the crowd, Erik growled, “What offer?” He glared at the Money. Not much to look at, late fifties with a sagging jaw and hard eyes, but the man wore the aura of power and wealth the way a dandy swaggered in a fine cloak.

  “Sshh,” hissed Prue. Where their bodies touched, all down his side, he could feel a fine trembling. Her fingers were cold, clutching his.

  The Right Hand removed his hands from his sleeves to toy with the silver gavel on the table before him. “Money,” he said in mild reproof, “what are you doing?” He nodded at the sea of avid faces. “Explain.”

  The Money’s lips went tight. Jerking his head up, he swept the Hall with a commanding glare. As the tavern keeper squirmed, the minister jabbed an accusing finger toward him. “Your accounts,” he snapped, “are an unmitigated disaster.” His lip curled. “By your ineptitude, you cheat Her Majesty of her rightful due.”

  The minister’s gaze traveled unhurriedly to Prue. It warmed.

  “Whereas Mistress McGuire here . . .” He smiled, and automatically, Erik drew
Prue closer, looming over her as obviously as he knew how. Lord’s balls, this was impossible, having Prue fight his battles for him! Words bubbled in his throat. Prue squeezed his hand so hard it hurt, but she didn’t take her aquamarine gaze from the Money’s face. With a supreme effort, Erik clamped his lips together.

  “I want that organized brain of yours, Mistress.” The minister’s expression became positively wolfish. “I offer you good work. Worthwhile. Rewarding.”

  The Queen’s Knowledge laughed, a sound perilously close to a giggle. “You’re in love, Money.”

  The Money shot him a poisonous glance.

  Prue cleared her throat. “May I speak before the Cabal, Noblelords?”

  “You have the right, lass,” the Navy broke in, her shrewd, weathered face faintly amused, “but it’s usual to wait for the number on your chit. The queue’s back there.” She indicated with her chin.

  Prue looked the Queen’s Money in the eye. “By your leave, Noblelord?”

  He leaned forward over the table. “Work for me.”

  Prue inclined her head. “If that is your price, Noblelord, I will consider it. May I have time to think?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Erik said in a fierce whisper.

  Prue gave no sign she’d heard him.

  The Queen’s Knowledge gazed kindly over the shiny gold spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Every citizen may speak before the Open Cabal. Navy’s right in that.” With his silver gavel, he tapped the pentacle before him. In the ringing silence, his voice carried to the back of the Hall. The acoustics were really very fine. “Go ahead, my dear.” His eyes twinkled. “But introduce us to your friend first.”

  With her usual composure, Prue said, “This is Erik Thorensen.” She raised her chin, scanning the audience. “Some of you will know he is a singer, visiting the city with the Unearthly Opera Company. Master Thorensen is from Concordia.” An infinitesimal pause. “As a citizen, I present him to the Open Cabal of the Queen.” Releasing Erik’s hand, Prue took a half step sideways. He felt oddly bereft. Exposed. “Please, Noblelords, hear him out.”

  As one, the spectators exhaled, like some huge animal stirring in its sleep.

  Godsdammit, he was on.

  Erik squared his shoulders, conscious of the weight of hundreds of eyes. Nothing new, this was what he did for a living. All he needed was a moment alone with any one of the Cabal. He scanned their faces. Prue had said this was the business of the City. Very well.

  Pasting on an easy smile, he bowed as gracefully as he knew how.

  “Is this some kind of performance?” asked the Queen’s Army, eye ing him with profound disfavor.

  Erik pitched his voice to reach the farthest corners of the Hall. “No, my Lord.” He spread his hands. “I ask only for a few moments of the City’s time. In private. The matter is urgent.”

  The Army grunted and returned to hefting his gavel from hand to hand.

  The City gave a crack of laughter. “It always is.” His dark eyes were cold and flat. “By the Brother, you have a nerve, whatever your name is.” He raised his gavel. “Either speak your business now or make an appointment with my office like everyone else.”

  The Voice rumbled in Erik’s chest, fighting to be free. But fuck, he couldn’t compel the man in front of hundreds of people. He swallowed the anger, along with the power. Set both aside. “Noblelord,” he said, and despite himself he sounded curt. “This is not a subject appropriate for discussion in a public forum.”

  “Then why the hell have you brought it to one?” The City shot a malicious glance at his colleague. Silver threads gleamed in the black hair at his temples. “This is a waste of time, Money.”

  18

  “Just a moment.” The Queen’s Knowledge tilted his head to one side and ran his fingers through the fringe of hair surrounding his bald dome until it stuck up in white tufts. Only the shrewdness in his expression saved him from looking comical. He smiled, slow and serious. “I confess, I am curious. What is this delicate matter?” His gaze softened as it traveled from Erik to Prue and back again. “Is it personal, perhaps?”

  Erik bowed again. “No.” An angry little breeze sprang up out of nowhere, ruffling his shirt, stirring the lavishly embroidered banners hanging high on the wall behind the table.

  The Knowledge simply stared, the very intensity of his gaze a question.

  “Git orf, ya daft bugger!” A small, squishy object hit Erik on the shoulder and burst. Soft, sweet rot. A small hand touched his sleeve and Prue’s clean, warm scent drifted past his nose. He steadied.

  “That will do,” said a quiet, precise voice. The man seated to the right of the empty throne had been so still, Erik had nearly forgotten him. The pool of silence spread until it seemed no one moved in the Hall. Or breathed.

  “Master Thorensen,” said the Right Hand of the Queen. “Much may be forgiven a visitor, but this is the Open Cabal of Caracole, not a sewing circle. State your business or leave.”

  Erik gritted his teeth. “I have no wish to cause alarm.”

  An excited buzz started behind him.

  The Right Hand leaned back in his chair, his pale blue eyes calm and chill. “Allow me to be the best judge of what constitutes alarm in the Queendom of the Isles.”

  Well, hell. “As you wish.”

  Erik squared his shoulders and met the man’s gaze full-on. The banners flapped and billowed in the freakish wind. “The Leaf of Nobility is rotting from beneath,” he said.

  The Army’s lips thinned with contempt. “For the Brother’s sake, not another one.” He turned his head. “Sergeant!”

  “I saw it myself.” Erik’s trained baritone bounced off the polished seastone walls.

  The crowd seethed, pressing against the ropes in an effort to get closer. Someone cursed, a woman called out in fear and a guardsman snapped out an order.

  “Hold.” The City leaned forward, his dark, hook-nosed face intent. The sergeant held up a hand and his men stopped in their tracks. “If you claim to have been under the Leaf, you lie, my friend.” He looked Erik up and down, and his lip curled. “It’s not possible to get that deep without Technomage apparatus. Even my trained divers wear it.”

  Erik set his jaw. “I had help. The stem is so soft with rot I could sink my arm in it up to the shoulder. It stinks. Can’t you smell it?”

  “Smell it?” The City stared. Then he slapped his hand on the table and threw his head back, roaring with laughter. The Knowledge giggled and even the Right Hand looked gravely amused.

  A beat behind, the air erupted with jeers, catcalls and obscenities. Erik’s skin crawled. Gods, if it was bad for him . . . Suddenly stricken, he glanced at the woman at his side. Prue’s face was as pale as paper, but her magnificent eyes blazed with fury and her lush mouth was set in a firm line.

  Lord’s balls, she was extraordinary, Prue McGuire! When he took her hand, she leaned closer to his body.

  “You’re the best-looking lunatic I’ve ever seen,” said the Navy with a twinkle. “But you’re still a lunatic.” Her gaze shifted to Prue. “Get him to a healer, Mistress. Before he starts to drool.”

  “It’s Sibling Full Moons,” said Prue. “The tides are particularly low.”

  The Money looked frankly appalled. “Tell me you didn’t smell it too, Mistress McGuire.”

  “No, Noblelord, I didn’t.” Prue stared the minister in the eye. “But I believe him. Absolutely.”

  “By the Brother, why?”

  “No,” muttered Erik under his breath. “Prue, no . . . Don’t . . .”

  “Because I saw the seelies,” said Prue.

  The Necromancer actually felt his jaw drop. By the time he’d snapped it closed again, the Open Cabal of the Queen resembled a riot in full cry. The noise was deafening; missiles of all kinds flew through the air. Rhiomard and his men brandished halberds, swords and even fists, to no avail. The singer shielded the air witch with his body, the back of his shirt a blotchy mess. As the Necromancer watched, he
turned his head just in time to avoid the rind of a manda fruit, but a bruise already decorated one cheekbone and something horrible dripped from his hair.

  The Technomage’s censorious voice echoed in his head. You’ve reduced the population to below a viable level. For a man of his intellect, it wasn’t a giant leap. Such interference has unpredictable results.

  The floor seemed to shift beneath him, and for a moment, he thought he might be physically ill.

  Good sense came to his rescue. What did it matter after all? The whole Leaf and every noblefamily who lived on it could go to the bottom with his blessing. It was the inconvenience that was galling. By Shaitan, he hated to be rushed, but it was unavoidable. The gods knew how much time he had—though he doubted They’d deign to inform him. He sat back, drumming his fingers on the table, watching a fat woman in the front row laugh so hard, tears streamed down her plump cheeks.

  It took the Queen’s Guard ten minutes to restore order, valuable thinking time.

  “Did they sing, Mistress?” he asked. “The way they do in the bedtime stories?”

  She didn’t even flinch, the bitch. Still cradled in the arms of the singer, she raised her chin, her level gaze uncompromising. “They did, Noblelord.” She really did have beautiful eyes, even if the rest of her was plain.

  The Navy rose. Carefully, she placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “This goes beyond a joke. You insult the Open Cabal and therefore Her Majesty.” Her brows snapped together. “If you were on a ship of mine, I’d have you flogged, the pair of you.”

  Lifting her gavel, she collected nods from around the table. “Petition dismissed.” Solid silver connected crisply with the novarine Pentacle.

  Theatrically, the Navy waited for the echoes to die away. Enjoying herself, thought the Necromancer with an inward sneer. “Mistress McGuire?”

  The air witch stopped in midstep to glance back over her shoulder. “Yes, Noblelady?”

  “You are fined five hundred credits. For contempt.”