dead in pools of their own blood. A few had escaped, but not many. The men in black glanced around, their breathing heavy, searching for any who might have escaped their notice. In a corner, Dove groaned as she clutched her abdomen. Blood pumped through her Fingers. The man who had murdered Bear knelt beside her and, with a quick, strong movement, snapped her neck. The gesture was professionally executed, and might have been considered a mercy.
The men listened, tense. Silence.
No, not quite. From behind the bar came a soft, faint whimpering sound. The men snapped to attention, and two of them swiftly went to the source of the noise.
Allika stared up at them, her eyes enormous with terror and her face moon-pale. She clutched Miss Lally to her chest and mewled helplessly.
One of the Black Men raised his knife. Allika remained frozen, enthralled with horror, unable to move, to flee, or to defend herself.
'No,' came a voice. 'She's just a child.'
'Children grow up to be thieves.'
'We don't know that she is a thief.' A second man, taller than the others, stepped into Allika's view. 'She could be just the brat of one of the women.'
'We have our orders,' the First man protested.
'And I'm giving you yours. Let her alone.' The tall man knelt. Allika stared at him, unable to stop trembling. The man's blue eyes seemed to bore straight into her brain.
'Listen to me, little girl. I want you to tell your friends something. Tell them that the city will not tolerate what they did on Travsdae. Any more incidents, and we'll come for the ones we didn't get tonight. Understand?'
Allika nodded. The man rose and left without another word, motioning to his fellows. She heard their retreating footsteps, then silence.
For a long time, Allika cowered behind the bar. No guards came to investigate the shrill screams that had filled the Whale's Tail. No concerned citizen, roused from his slumber, came to rescue her. Finally, she realized that she would somehow have to walk, alone, through the carnage that littered the tavern floor. She picked up the doll and sat her on her knee.
'No one's going to come get me,' she whispered to Miss Lally.
Then it was Miss Lally's turn to 'talk' and the words came easier, crept past the lump in her throat, when Allika was speaking for her cloth playmate.
'Come on, Allika,' she said in a high, squeaky voice, moving Miss Lally's head as if the doll were speaking. 'We have to go see Fox. Fox will know exactly what to do!'
'But, Miss Lally, I'm scared to go out there,' she whispered in her own small voice.
'I'll be with you, Allika. They can't hurt me, and I'll be brave enough for the both of us!' Her voice cracked a little, and she laughed at herself. Rising unsteadily, the girl tried to brace herself for the scene, but her young mind was incapable of visualizing so brutal and bloody a horror. The bodies of people she had considered family were sprawled across the floor. Blood was everywhere. Allika choked back a sob.
They look just like dolls, she told herself fiercely. That's all. Just like broken dolls.
She took one step, then another. Her poorly shod feet squelched in blood, and she swallowed hard. Allika did not look down, but kept her eyes on what was left of the tavern door. Step carefully, over the limp arms, between the sprawled legs, next to the bloody heads… broken dolls. Just broken dolls.
The thought got her through the seemingly endless walk to the smashed door. Once out in the cool, safe emptiness of the streets, Allika gasped the brine-scented air as if it were the sweetest fragrance in the world. Then, no longer dragging Miss Lally but clutching her tightly, she broke into a run.
She would deliver the Black Man's message to Fox, and Fox would know exactly what to do.
Fox, known to everyone but the thieves of Braedon as Lord Deveren Larath, patron of the arts, connoisseur of the finer things in life, and incidentally possessor of a slight bit of hand magic, did not know exactly what to do. But he had a good idea.
Thirty-four years old, he had no crow's feet and only a touch of gray in his light brown hair. His hands were the hands of a musician, a surgeon, or a thief-slim, delicate, and clever. The fact that he had the gift of hand magic, magic that allowed him to manipulate objects to a certain degree, accentuated his dexterousness. Tonight, Venedae, only one night after the massacre, he wore an unembellished, royal blue tunic and comfortable black breeches-clothes that would allow for swift, unencumbered movement should the need arise.
Allika huddled in his lap, her small face nestled against his broad chest as if she could absorb his strength. Absently Deveren stroked her short black hair, his eyes flickering over the assembled company as they waited for the emergency meeting to begin.
Rabbit, a local apothecary and herbalist, had volunteered his shop for the meeting. Once, such a gesture had been commonplace, even expected. Now, in light of the murders, the offer was an act of quiet courage. The back room was where the herbs used in his medicines dried, and those who entered had to brush aside fragile, fragrant bunches of basil, marjoram, fennel, and other plants that hung from the ceiling. The warm, friendly scent of cinnamon vied with the strong odor of garlic and the tang of some kind of citrus. Rabbit had done what he could to clear the floor so people would have places to sit, but the quarters were still cramped. A few encased candles provided flickering illumination.
Deveren noticed that, to a man, the thieves all wore the same strained, wary expression that he himself bore. Everyone here knew that it was simple luck that he or she hadn't been in the Whale's Tail Desdae night, quaffing a toast to the soon-to-be-deceased Bear. As they entered, the men and women, some clad in finery, some in functional, working clothing, and some in rags, spoke soft, somber greetings.
Deveren knew them all: Clia, 'Sparrow,' the fortuneteller whose sultry charms diverted attention from her quick fingers; the noble-born Pedric, known as Otter, who delighted in audacious plans and narrow escapes, and his current woman Marrika, 'Raven;' Freylis, 'Wolf,' whose bullying manner and greed would have embarrassed any pack of real wolves; Hawk, Mouse, Cat, Hound… tonight, all their voices would be heard as they selected a new leader.
After all the surviving thieves were assembled, a pitiful twenty or so, the low conversation ceased. With their leader dead, no one was sure who would conduct the meeting. The thieves raised eyes that mirrored their inner apprehension and turmoil. Only black-haired Marrika, seated cross-legged on the floor with her ubiquitous chunk of wood and her carving knife, seemed at ease. Save for the scritch-scritch sound of her whittling, the room was filled with an awkward silence. At last, Deveren gently pushed Allika off his lap and rose.
'If I remember correctly,' he began, 'anyone may volunteer to be leader, and then we pare it down from there.' He raised his own hand. 'I'm willing. Anyone else care to put his neck in the noose?'
Freylis's big hand shot up at once, as Deveren could have predicted. Freylis had been close to Bear and was certainly that man's equal in strength and viciousness, though he lacked the late leader's cunning. Of course, Freylis would covet the position. And he was popular enough that he just might get it. Deveren sincerely hoped not.
A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw Marrika elbowing Pedric. The young man, his fine velvet doublet and hose clashing with his woman's manlike working clothes, rolled his eyes and stuck his own thin, aristocrat's hand in the air. Marrika had paused in her whittling and her dark eyes snapped fire. Deveren knew that, had tradition not forbidden women to become leader, she would have raised her own hand.
He waited a few more moments, but no one else seemed to be interested in either the great honor or the great danger that came with the position.
'We three, then,' he said, leaning up against the wooden wall of the room. He gestured to Rabbit. 'We'll need three colors of pebbles.' Rabbit, who had spent the better part of the afternoon sorting a variety of colors of beads and pebbles, nodded and slipped out into the front room. Deveren returned his attention to the gathering. 'Who would like to speak first?'
Freylis rose. His bulk loomed large in the tight, packed room, and the flickering flame of the candlelight made his bearded, scarred face look even more sinister than usual.
'Bear was my friend,' he said quietly. Deveren raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected a mournful Freylis.
'I been in this group for a long time, and there wasn't never a better leader than Bear. He gave us back our
