hand.
No, not quite everyone. The door banged shut, and he looked up to see that Marrika and Pedric had gone. Freylis, looking angrier than Deveren had ever seen him, was following suit, shadowed by a few of his loyal devotees. Their expressions were sullen and their eyes glittered with a smoldering hatred. Deveren knew that, while he had a host of new, probably false, friends, he had also made a few true enemies.
Through the press of people eager to ingratiate themselves with him, he felt the pressure of small arms going around his waist. He glanced down to see Allika beaming up at him, and an unexpected lump rose in his throat. To the Nightlands with Freylis and his group of malcontents. The child grinning up at him with delight shining in her eyes was the reason he had wanted the position. She was the future of the thieves' group, and more than he wanted to enrich the thieves, he wanted to protect them.
'As you know, Fox, you've got a job to do before the election's official.' Rabbit's voice managed to float to Deveren's ears over the babbling of the crowd, but Deveren didn't quite catch the words. 'Quiet, everyone, please,' he urged, and the chattering fell silent. 'What did you say, Rabbit?'
'There's still the Grand Theft,' explained Rabbit patiently. Deveren's brow furrowed. He wasn't familiar with the term. 'The Grand Theft is your proof that you're worthy. Not,' he added hastily, 'that we think otherwise. Tradition, you know. We'll all meet sometime in the near future and decide on an item for you to steal.'
'What kind of item?'
'Could be anything — the bell from the Godstower, perhaps, or a woman's brooch while she's wearing it, something like that. We'll inform you of our decision. In the meantime,' he looked apologetic, 'until we can put Leader Fox's plan of reformation into effect, I'll have to urge everyone to be going. We've been here a while now, and
…' his voice trailed off and he shrugged his thin shoulders.
'Of course,' replied Deveren swiftly. 'By ones and twos, everyone. I'll go first, just in case we've been spotted and someone's planning an ambush.'
He didn't think so. The assassins had come, done their job, and left. If they had meant to eliminate every thief in Braedon, they would have already done it. Nonetheless, his offer, as he had intended, was regarded as a sign of his courage. He heard the murmur of approval and half hid a smile.
The night street was empty. Cool, moist air ruffled his light brown hair. He breathed deeply, tasting the slight tang of salt on the breeze. His ebullience stayed with him during the long walk home. He hadn't dared ride to the meeting, as the sight of a horse tethered outside the store would have drawn unwanted attention, and Flamedancer was unmistakable. The walk, though, was pleasant. The streets were deserted, the night still. Deveren enjoyed this hour, when the normally bustling port city was resting.
He passed a few of the temples as he took the road that led up to the hills and the better part of town. The temple to Light was, of course, brilliantly illuminated. Made of wood and stone, it was set apart by its many expensive windows of real glass. Some segments were stained, and Deveren had to admit that the rainbow of illumination was beautiful and appealing. The temple of Light was the only lit building in the area. At this hour, even the lamps that lined the city streets had been permitted to burn out.
He passed a guard post stationed on the road and saw the armed men standing over a makeshift brazier, for the bite of the sea wind could turn even summer nights chilly. One of them raised his hand and cried a halloo. It was more than a simple greeting; though polite, it was a challenge. Should Deveren not respond, not have a good reason to be out at this hour, the guards would be on him in a minute.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' Deveren called back.
'Late night, m'lord Larath?' the guard who had hailed him asked.
Deveren chuckled, easy in their company. 'Very late. I'm getting too old for midnight card games, I'm afraid.'
The guardsmen, completely reassured, laughed comfortably. 'Need an escort home, Deveren?' came a voice, deeper and more direct than the others. Deveren recognized the guard commander, Telian Jaranis. Things were serious indeed if the commander was taking to dropping by the guard posts at this hour.
'Well, good evening, Captain-or, good morning, rather. No, thank you, the walk'll help sober me up. Besides, my luck wasn't good at the tables tonight-I'd make a poor target for a thief.' 'As you wish, sir.'
Deveren continued on, humming a little to himself as the temples gave way to long stretches of flat, unused land. The wind shifted, bringing a sudden blessing of fragrance to Deveren's nostrils. He smiled. He knew he was close to home when he could smell the Garden.
Planted by and paid for by all the residents of the Square, as the most fashionable area of Braedon was known, the wall-encircled Garden was an enormous plot of land filled to bursting with the most beautiful and fragrant of flowers. There were many varieties of trees and shrubs as well, even a complex maze in which it was very easy to get lost-if one didn't know the secret. Deveren thought it a terrible shame that it wasn't open to the public; apparently, the richer folk of the city felt that the enjoyment of such beauty, bought and paid for by them, should be limited to them.
His own house, a comparatively modest stone-and-wood construction with only two stories and a tiny stable, was the first one on the right. The small patch of ground surrounding it boasted a wrought iron fence that bore the Larath family crest, and those who had visited Deveren knew that the deceptively humble home was furnished in a most tasteful and gracious manner. And Deveren's home had windows-thick, wavy-glassed windows. That alone marked him as a man of means.
Deveren's brisk stride faltered, stopped.
One of the first-floor windows had light streaming through it. He had left the house dark. One of the servants? Deveren quickly dismissed that thought. They'd have left for their own domiciles hours ago.
A sudden dewing of cold sweat dotted his forehead. He'd been wrong. It seemed as though the assassins hadn't finished their job, after all.
CHAPTER TWO
'How art thou my brother?' asked the Sun.
'Thy light is not like mine, nor thy magics.'
'Ah, ' replied the Moon, 'yet we both rule the skies, and shine our lights upon Mankind, do we not?'
— from Tales of the Sun and Moon
For a long moment, Deveren simply stood, staring foolishly. One hand tightly gripped the cold metal of the wrought iron fence. Reason seeped back into his paralyzed limbs and he sprinted around the side, heading for the back of his house, away from the room with the lighted candle. Quickly he climbed the fence and jumped down, landing as quietly as possible in the soft grass. Hidden in the shadows now, he hastened for the shelter of the building's walls, flattening himself against the cold stone, listening, his body taut as a bowstring. Perspiration dampened his face. There was no sound, no evidence that he had been noticed.
The room to his immediate left was his library. It was dark, and far enough back from the lighted window so that even if he made sounds, he wouldn't be heard. But Deveren intended to make no noise. He crouched beneath the wooden sill and reached his hand up, pressing two fingers against the window. Deveren concentrated on stilling his racing thoughts, and visualized the window unlocking. He did not have to raise his head to know that his meager hand magic hadn't worked. Had he been able to lay even a single finger on the lock itself, he could have managed it. As it was, the additional barrier of the glass, frail as it was, was an obstacle that prevented him from opening the window.
He dropped down again and pressed his back flat against the stone. Sometimes, Deveren thought with a hint of disgust, plain old burglary was more efficient than magic. He fumbled in his pouch. Deveren had a bad habit of never emptying his pouch from night to night or theft to theft. Had he not already been a thief, he would, contrary to what he had told the guards, have been a prime candidate for robbery; the deceptively simple pouch he wore at his side was crammed full of valuables.
Now his bad habit had become an unexpected blessing. Fumbling blindly in the pouch, his questing fingers found a ring whose stone was not embedded in its golden circle but rather jutted up proudly. He closed his eyes in relief. Stones set in such a manner, Deveren knew, were most usually diamonds. He pulled the ring out, then
