Honor Among Thieves toss-1 Read online

  The adept bowed. “Delighted to make youracquaintance. I will have servants bring food and water. You willneed your strength for the fox hunt.”

  He took the clockwork servant and the meadow sprite’scage with him, leaving the newly named Honor alone with her griefand rage and a thousand clamoring questions.

  She knew she should plan for the task ahead andpuzzle out what had been done to her since the night she was stolenfrom the forest. But try as she might, she could not move past asingle troubling thought:

  What else did Asteria, her sister and her queen, tellthe humans?

  Chapter Two: The Gatherers’ Shadow

  In the city of Sevrin, people saw gatherers toofrequently to pay them much heed. No one spared more than a glanceto the man sauntering through the long shadows of Rhendish Manor.And why should they, when a single glance sufficed to read hisnature and purpose?

  He wore a cutlass on his belt and affected the smirkand swagger of a man who knew its use. Pirate gold winked from oneear. A blue-and-white striped bandanna covered his hair. Perhapshis appearance sounded a few discordant notes-his bright greentunic quarreled with the red lining of his cloak-but the overalleffect sang in tune with Sevrin’s expectations.

  A less cautious observer might have noted that thegatherer’s fine wool breeches had been cut to a taller man’smeasure. Discerning eyes might have perceived the gatherer’ssun-weathered face was several shades darker than his unglovedhands. Further study might reveal that he was several years youngerthan he strove to appear.

  But anyone who might be inclined to take a secondglance had more interesting things to observe.

  They would see the slim, dark-eyed girl wearing aservant’s hooded shawl and following at a proper half-pace behindthe Gatherer. They would see the well-filled sack slung over hershoulder and wonder what grim trophies and foreign oddities itmight contain.

  They would not see Fox Winterborn, a streetthief who was still two seasons short of his twentieth-firstyear.

  Fox had no reason to love the adepts who ruledSevrin. The banishment of magic weighed heavily on him, but itsofficial absence made people less inclined to question what theireyes told them. Fox saw no reason why he should not take advantageof this.

  He and his companion turned a corner into a grassysquare organized around a fountain pool, over which presided asmall marble dragon. As they passed the fountain, the apparentmaidservant tossed a small gold coin into the dragon’s openmouth.

  Clockwork whirred softly behind empty stone eyes.Clouds of fine mist burst from the statue’s nostrils. The girlstopped and lifted her face to the cooling spray.

  Several small children rushed over to dance andshriek in the water while mothers or nurses looked on withindulgent smiles. One of the children, a sharp-eyed ferret of agirl, leaned over the pool’s wall and stretched her hand out toexplore the dragon’s mouth. She snatched her empty hand out of thewater and turned to regard the hooded servant.

  The maidservant sent the child a wink as she slippedthe coin back into her pocket.

  In response, the child fisted a small, grubby handand held it up to display the bent-nail ring on one finger.

  “Cold iron,” she said in a tone full of puppy-growlmenace. “Away, foul sprite!”

  Fox caught his companion’s arm and hurried her away.“Vishni, what did I tell you about spending fairy gold?”

  The girl lifted one dark eyebrow.“‘Don’t?’”

  He let out a huff that mingled amusement withexasperation. “I’m serious. No one pays much attention to a child’sstories, but the less we’re noticed, the better.”

  “Not the advice I’d expect from someone who’s tartedup like Captain Pegleg’s parrot.”

  “People see the plumage, not the bird.”

  The implication of his words struck him like adwarf’s fist and stopped him midstride.

  Vishni grinned. “Having visions of fairy wings, arewe? Big, gaudy wings? Maybe a nice bright shade of orange, sincethat’s the only color you don’t seem to be wearing.”

  “Don’t even think about it!”

  “Why not? By your own reasoning, wings would distractpeople and keep them from looking at my face.”

  “A full-scale invasion of flying monkeys would beinsufficient to that purpose,” he said. “Now, for the love of athousand tiny gods, pull up your hood.”

  The girl blinked. A small, pleased smile curved herlips as she arranged the folds of her shawl around her face.

  They left the square and headed in silence down TwinGate Way, a broad street lined with shops and ending in a pair ofhigh, gated arches. Both gates stood open, and several uniformedguards monitored the flow of traffic into the walled district.

  The sprawling complex known as Rhendish Manor crownedSevrin’s tallest hill. The hill itself had come to be calledCrystal Mountain, not because of any mineral deposits it mightcontain, but to reflect the particular obsession of its arcanelord.

  Beyond the right-hand gate a long road wound uphillpast the workshops of artisans who crafted bits and pieces for theadept’s creations. A short line of carts and carriages awaitedinspection. Crafters came and went on foot. People bound directlyfor the manor, however, gathered at the left gate to ride the Mule,a wonder of ropes and pulleys and clockwork machinery that liftedpassenger carriages up over the steep rock of the mountain’s northwall.

  Fox steered Vishni toward the queue awaiting theMule.She shaded her eyes with one small hand and fixed a doubtfulgaze on the mountain summit and the carriages swaying in the highwind.

  “I don’t like this.”

  A short huff of laughter escaped him. “Fear ofheights, Vishni? Completely understandable. It’s not as if youcould fly. .”

  “No one flies far in a cage.” They edged closer tothe left gate. “And only a fool willingly steps into one.”

  “Stop fussing. We’re not riding the Mule.”

  He tipped his head toward the other gate. Her gazefollowed the gesture. Her eyes widened at the sight of theblack-bearded official who stood with one booted foot on a cart’swheel spoke, scowling down at a bill of lading.

  “Is that-”

  “The hero of ‘How Gompson Wed the Gorgon?’ The manwhose bride you locked in a root cellar because switching bridesmade for a better story? That’s him.”

  “Hero?” Vishni sniffed. “Gompson knew fullwell the girl under the veil wasn’t the girl whose dowry he’dalready spent. He just thought it was a different differentgirl.”

  “Thanks to your illusions.”

  “So? Every story requires a twist or two,” she saidas they shuffled a step closer to the gate. “Everyone assumes truelove will win the day. A good storyteller subverts expectations. Ifyou ask me, it’s more satisfying to see a trickster paid in his owncoin.”

  Fox nodded as he scanned the bustling scene.

  “I could create a diversion,” Vishni said.

  His gaze snapped back to her. “Yes, because thatworked out so well last time.”

  She pouted and folded her arms. “It’s not my faultDelgar got himself captured.”

  Actually, it was, but Fox saw no profit in pointingthis out. More to the point, a diversion of another sort demandedhis full attention.

  A pair of barefoot urchins clambered up themountain’s steep rocky face, sure-footed as mountain goats. Theyclimbed to a jutting outcrop of rocks that came within a few feetof the Mule’s lower rope. One of the boys shuffled carefully to theedge of the rock.

  Someone noticed and raised a hand to point. A murmurran through the crowd, and people fell back from the gate to get abetter look.

  A Mule carriage swept downward toward the boy’sperch. It would clear the rock with little room to spare.

  The woman behind Fox gasped like a blacksmith’sbellows.

  “Too low,” she moaned. “Flatten him, it will, like acartwheel over a toad.”

  Other people were coming to the same conclusions.From somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed at the boy to getdown. Two of the guards trie
d to climb up after him, only to beshouted down by their captain.

  “Get ready,” Fox murmured.

  When the carriage was a few feet away from him, thelad leaped and caught the rope. He whooped and kicked as he rode itdown, the carriage following at a safe and steady distancebehind.

  The boy let go of the rope and dropped onto the thickstraw thatching of a small shop that stood under the Mule’s ropesand just outside the walls. He rolled down, landed on his feet, andbounced off into a run.

  For several moments, chaos reigned.

  A stout woman rushed out of the shop in a cloud ofdust and straw, yelling at the boy as she brushed thatching fromher shoulders and hair. Three dogs darted after the boy, whovaulted over a flatbed cart loaded with wooden chicken crates. Oneof the crates tumbled to the street and broke apart. A dozen or sopanicked hens scattered. Two cart ponies shied and reared, tippingover the cart and its cargo of apples.

  The crowd was evenly divided between those whohurriedly distanced themselves from the disturbance and those whorushed forward to take advantage of it. Children scrambled forapples. A few boys started an impromptu battle, pelting each otherand anyone within range with bruised fruit. One of the dogs gave uppursuit of the urchin in favor of chasing chickens. The merchantsnatched up his hen and held it high overhead while the dog leapedand snapped at its prey.

  Fox and Vishni slipped through the gate, unnoticed,and fell in behind a group of grumbling artisans.

  They ducked into a narrow walkway between two stoneworkshops. Fox stooped and slid a pair of silver pennies into acrevice. The boys who’d staged the disturbance could collect theirpay at their leisure.

  “Not bad,” Vishni said. “But just imagine how muchmore interesting that could have been with an illusion or two.”

  “No illusions,” he said firmly.

  The girl propped her hands on her narrow hips. “Thenwhy, exactly, am I here?”

  Fox’s stern expression wavered. “We might need you tocast an illusion. But only as a last resort.”

  She rolled her eyes and started down the walk. Foxcaught her arm.

  “I’ll meet you at the waulking bowl.”

  Vishni’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Trying to getrid of me?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’m going to theherbalist to get a restorative for Delgar. He might not need it,but if he does, it will save us the trouble of carrying himout.”

  “I’ll meet you at the waulking bowl,” Vishni saidflatly. She spun on her heel and took off the way they’d come.

  Fox smirked and continued down the walk. To Vishni,“herbalist” was another way of saying “green witch.” Her kind hadreason to avoid humans who meddled with plants and potions.Hestopped on the way to buy a pair of ducks, dressed and plucked andready for the pot. The herbalist lived on what her garden provided.It seldom occurred to her to eat anything else, and as far as Foxknew, he was the only one who bothered to remind her.

  The door to the herbalist’s shop stood open, but Foxhad another, safer way in. He slipped into the shadows beside thecooper’s shop, where stood a courtyard paved with large, flatstones.

  He slid a barrel aside as quietly as possible toreveal a stone twice the width of his shoulders. He removed twosmall, rounded rocks wedged under either edge of the stone andstepped onto one side. The rock spun on a hidden central hinge anddropped him into a low tunnel.

  After securing the stone door from below, he creptthrough the tunnel. A short incline led to a door fashioned of thinwood covered by an even thinner layer of stone. He cracked it openand checked the room for occupants. Moving quickly, he pushedthrough and swung the door back into place. The facade blendedseamlessly with the thicker stone of the workshop wall.

  Delgar, it must be said, did very good work.

  Fox rose to his feet as the herbalist entered theroom, humming tunelessly.

  Once, perhaps, she had been beautiful. The passage offorty hard years had left deep tracks on her face. Her eyes hadfaded to the same pale gray as her kirtle and shift, and she was asthin and pale as any tunnel-dwelling beggar. She would be ascolorless as rainwater, except for a thick braid of rich darkauburn draped over one shoulder.

  The woman caught sight of him. Her eyes glazed withterror and the pottery in her hands clattered to the floor.

  Too late, Fox remembered his disguise. Chagrin sweptthrough him like a winter blast. This woman had more reason thanmost to fear gatherers.

  He ripped off the blue bandana, revealing hair as redas hers.

  No flicker of recognition lit her eyes.

  Fox cleared his throat. “I’ve come for arestorative.”

  Her face cleared. “For whom?”

  He held out his palm. In it lay a tiny gray pebble,barely larger than a grain of sand.

  Most people wouldn’t understand the significance. Butthen, most people believed that dwarves were long extinct.

  The woman closed her eyes and listened for the musicFox had never been able to hear. After a moment she nodded and ledthe way into her back garden.

  A hundred familiar scents swept over Fox. He brushedhis fingers over the lacy fronds of a fennel stalk as if greetingan old friend.

  The herbalist moved among the terraced beds, pickinga sprig here, a blossom there. When her apron was well laden, shereturned to the shop and set to work.

  He watched as she ground herbs and mixed them withoils and decoctions from a dozen tiny bottles. Her hands moved withthe deft skill of long practice.

  Muscles have memories.

  It was a phrase his friend Avidan used often, and oneof the few things the alchemist said that made sense to Fox. Itcertainly described the way the herbalist worked.

  From time to time, she cocked her head as iflistening. According to Avidan, that was precisely what washappening.

  There is no silence, Avidan claimed, only sounds onecannot hear. If he was to be believed, every metal, every liquid,even every scent had a sound, as precise as a well-tuned harpstring. Avidan said that everything, living and inanimate, vibratedat its own unique pitch. Hearing these sounds and blending them innew harmonies was not magic-at least not as most people understoodmagic-but art assisted by keenly honed senses.

  Of course, Avidan was as crazy as three cagedsquirrels.

  Fox banished the young alchemist from his thoughtsand watched as the herbalist poured the medicine into a vial,stoppered it firmly. She set it aside. Without even a moment’shesitation she reached for another mortar and pestle and began togrind dried feverfew and mint.

  She’d already forgotten it, Fox realized. He pickedup the vial and took the ducks from his bag. He offered them with aslight bow.

  Her face lit up with pleasure, which quickly dimmed.“I can’t afford those.”

  Fox held up the vial. “A fair trade.”

  Panic flared in her eyes. Fox gave himself a swiftmental kick. In some part of her mind, she remembered what happenedto green witches.

  “I found this bottle in your yard,” he liedsmoothly.

  She looked relieved. “Oh, that’s all right, there.But I should pay you for taking it away. Such things aredangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t hold onto it long.”

  “I won’t,” he said, mimicking the singsong tone of achild told not to muddy his new boots.

  The woman smiled at that. She reached out andstraightened the collar of his tunic, a maternal gesture as naturalas breathing.

  For a moment hope burned bright in Fox’s heart. Hesearched the herbalist’s face but found no spark of light.

  Muscles have memories.

  Fox dropped his gaze, unable to meet that emptystare. His attention fixed for a moment on a small, familiarobject-an old silver locket, tarnished with age and neglect. Thechain was gone, but she’d tied it to her belt with a bit of ribbon.The locket gaped open. Fox squinted and noticed that the clasp wasmissing.

  “Your locket is broken,” he said. “Do you want me tohave it repaired for you?”

&n
bsp; To his astonishment, she untied the ribbon from herbelt and handed the locket to him.

  Just like that.

  The possession she most treasured, the only thingshe’d carried away from the ruin of her home and life. The thing soprecious and personal that she’d never once permitted Fox to handleit, much less look inside.

  Fox thrust it into his pocket. “Someone’s at thedoor,” he said gruffly.

  She nodded and wandered off, though no knock or callbeckoned. Fox slipped through his hidden door and slumped to theground.

  Not everyone can be saved. Some wounds go too deepfor healing.

  Avidan had repeated those words more times than Foxcould count. One of these days, he’d likely come around to thealchemist’s way of thinking on this matter.

  But not today. Not when there was still a chance forDelgar.

  Fox pushed himself to his feet and set a course forRhendish Manor.

  Chapter Three: Curiosities

  “What kept you so long?” Vishni demanded.

  Fox held up the herbalist’s vial. The girl took aninvoluntary step back.

  Her caution was probably unnecessary, but fairies hadstrange and sometimes dangerous reactions to an odd list of things.Iron, of course, but several plants and fruits could have oddeffects. In times past, certain green witches knew the secret ofherbs that could ward against the fey, bind them to a promise,render them helpless through fits of giggles, or simply make themsneeze. Fairies believed, with some justification, that elves hadtaught witches these things.

  Elves belonged in this world. Fairies did not. Noneof the fair folk forgot this for a moment.

  Vishni flicked one hand toward the waulking bowl asif she could ward off the stench.

  “You couldn’t have picked a better place tomeet?”

  The waulking bowl was actually a barrel, broad as acottage and nearly as tall as Fox. It provided a place for servantsto empty night water, which, in sufficient quantity, could stripthe grease from sheep fleeces. As useful as the waulking bowl mightbe, Fox could see why it had been located downwind of the workshopsand cottages.