guardsman as he frantically raced home and burst into his house.
Yalissa and Cassim held one another and wept. Several guards were talking to them, inspecting the first- story floor.
'Lord Larath-' one of them said, but Deveren ignored him and raced up the stairs.
Kastara. Kastara. Oh, gods, please, please…
The bedchamber was crawling with guardsmen. The place had been ransacked. Chairs were overturned. Drawers were open. The pillows had been slit and their feathery contents lay over everything like a bizarre dusting of snow. The guardsmen glanced up at his entrance, and upon recognizing him moved to block his view.
But not soon enough. Oh, dear gods, not soon enough.
She lay where the evil intruder had left her, sprawled on the bed. Her chemise was no longer white but red, and the wet redness clung to her breasts and full belly in an obscene caress. The redness came from the terrible hole between her breasts, the hole created no doubt by the same knife that had slashed open the pillows and…
Deveren, his knees buckling, stumbled to the bed. He felt concerned hands closing on his shoulders and arms, trying to pull him away, but he tore loose and fell upon his wife's corpse, sobbing hoarsely. Dimly he realized that her flesh was cold. Any chance Health's Blesser might have had of saving the child, if not the mother, had long since passed.
They had been married only a year and a half. They were expecting a child. They were supposed to have years left, decades together… and one stranger's greed and evil had destroyed it all.
'Kastara… I'm so sorry… I should have stayed…' She was stiff and cold in his arms as he clutched her to him, and hard on the heels of his wild grief was a hot, scorching rage.
One thought hammered at his brain, and would sustain him through years to come. Deveren Larath would find the man who had done this. He would find him, and then, he would kill him. It was that simple.
CHAPTER ONE
And among the crimes most loathed by Light's faithful shall be the deeds done away from his face: murder, treachery, and theft.
1285
Night is the thief’s friend. It enfolds him in its blanket of anonymity, hides the glitter of the lethal blade, the gleam of stolen gold. Darkness is his sanctuary, as certain a refuge for him as a temple is to the followers of its faith. Folk who conduct their business in the daylight hours sleep in the illusion of peace, as ignorant of the burglars who steal their coins as of the blades that steal their lives.
Allika sauntered carelessly down Ocean's View, the main street of Braedon, with only the moon to light her path. Cool silver light gleamed on the dark cobblestones, slick with the early morning dampness common to all seashore towns. Allika was a child of the friendly night and had no fear of what might be lurking in the shadows in the predawn hours. It was the day, with its dozens of sharp-eyed vendors and, perhaps, city guards, that harbored danger. Her doll, Miss Lally, made no protest as she bumped her rag-filled head against the cobblestones. Allika tended to drag Miss Lally by one limb, usually a leg.
Allika hummed to herself as she turned left, then right, then left again, entering the labyrinth of back alleys that were the seedier areas of Braedon. Her stomach rumbled, providing a bass counterpoint to the girl's wordless voice. She patted it absently. There would be food waiting at the Whale's Tail, more food than she'd seen in a week. The group had made a wonderful haul two nights ago, and Allika wanted to arrive before all the good things were gone.
The Whale's Tail, a third-rate tavern on a narrow, claustrophobic street that didn't even have a name, was the only building with its lights on. Allika stood on her toes to reach the knob, turned it with some effort, and entered.
The cramped, shabby tavern was not exactly a place for a seven-year-old girl, but to Allika, it was the closest thing to a home she had ever found. She felt utterly welcome here.
''Lo,' she said cheerfully, grinning at the curious collection of nobles and slum rats that considered her part of their family. 'What can I have?'
'Anything you want, Little Squirrel,' invited a laughing barmaid, stepping carefully around Allika as the girl, not really waiting for an answer, headed straight for the nearest table. The wine-stained wooden table was piled high with bread, cheese, meats, and most enticing of all, sweet-cakes.
Even among themselves, the thieves of the city of Braedon called one another by special names. Allika was Little Squirrel. The barmaid/thief who greeted her was Dove, and the bearded, heavy-set man who lifted Allika high enough so that she could reach the beckoning sweetcakes was Bear.
Bear now watched with amusement as Allika grew frustrated that her small hands could hold only a limited amount of food. Attempting to grab one more item, she dropped two.
'That'll do you for now!' Bear laughed. 'Come back when you want more.'
Allika nodded. 'Is Fox coming tonight?'
'He's been invited. But he's probably too busy with his rich friends for the likes of us.'
'Oh.' Some of the enthusiasm went out of the girl's face. She ambled behind the bar to eat her treats safely away from adult conversation and feet.
Bear watched her go with a gaze growing speculative. Little Squirrel was a good little pickpocket. She had a pretty face, a sweet face that deceived her victims. In a few more years, she'd have a figure to go with that face. Men would pay a lot for her. He wondered why he hadn't considered prostitution before. After all, his group didn't need to limit themselves to theft. Hadn't they just proved that?
Bear had held his post for a record twelve years, and the recent robberies and murders of no fewer than three Braedon councilmen in one swift, sure highway attack would do nothing but strengthen his position as chief wolf of a savage pack.
The thought of the money Allika would earn him in a few years brought a smile to his thick lips.
'Another round,' the Bear told the tavern keeper, a balding older man called Badger. 'I see a few hardworking men whose glasses aren't full.' He laughed and drained his own mug, which was promptly refilled by the equally genial Badger. As the 'barmaids' set about the task of refilling the empty glasses, a not terribly sober, bone-thin man stumbled to his feet.
'A toast t' Bear! Today the city councilmen-tomorrow, the city isself!'
As a cheer went up, the door to the Whale's Tale splintered with a thunderous crack. The thieves, utterly shocked, hesitated just an instant too long. Then there was little time to act as armed men dressed in black clothing, their faces smeared with soot, suddenly swarmed into the tavern.
Bear overturned his table and dove behind it. A knife whistled through the air and landed with a thunk in the wood, inches from his head. Seizing two of the many daggers he always carried with him, Bear took aim and hurled them at the silent, black-clad attackers. One fell, the blade in his throat. His comrade turned coolly around and lunged for Bear.
Bear had expected more thrown daggers, not a suicidal charge, and he had only just reached for another knife when the killer was upon him. Though he outweighed the intruder by about fifty pounds, Bear fell beneath him. He felt cool metal touch his throat, then a brief, searing flash of white-hot agony. Then he felt nothing at all.
By the time the unknown killer had dispatched the leader of the thieves, seventeen of Bear's followers lay
