He rose and grabbed a bottle of wine that was on the sideboard. The bottle, an excellent vintage imported from Mhar, had been opened for a dinner earlier that week and the cork replaced. Deveren glanced about for something with which to extract the cork, found nothing immediately to hand, gripped the cork with his teeth and tugged. There was a slight pop. He poured himself a goblet of wine with a hand that trembled, and drained the glass.
Still angry, he placed the bottle on the table with a thump. Damir regarded it for a moment, arching a thin eyebrow. Then, to his brother's astonishment, he took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank directly from the neck.
Deveren stared, then broke into a loud, whooping laugh. The sight of formal, elegant Damir, who knew which eating implement went with which course and what side the wine was served on, guzzling like a sewer drunk was too ludicrous for any other reaction. Neatly, without spilling a drop, Damir finished his drink and set the bottle down on the table. He smiled slightly.
'I never liked for you to best me, not even in bad manners,' he said drily.
They were friends again. 'Here,' said Deveren, the bright bubble of mirth still in his voice, 'let me get you a glass.'
For a time, the talk turned to topics lighter, safer, than theft or murder or espionage. The brothers talked of children, and crops, and new plays, and bardic festivals. They finished each other's sentences, laughed at each other's jokes, and drank in fraternal closeness. At last, Damir glanced at the candle, now burning low, and then outside at the lightening sky.
'I'm going to stay here awhile, Dev, if I may,' he said.
'Aha, I knew there was another reason for your visit. I didn't think it was simply brotherly concern that had you rushing all the way out here.'
'It was, truly,' said Damir. 'But I… well, I'll be frank with you. Your… hobby might be useful. And while I'm not overly happy at your recent promotion to leader, I confess that I could use your help in that capacity.'
Deveren's eyebrows shot up.
'If you mean what you say about helping the thieves of your city gain a little self-respect, here's an excellent chance to begin. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but…' Damir sighed. 'You know of the planned marriage between our Princess Cimarys and the young prince of Mhar, Castyll?'
'Good gods, they've been betrothed since they were in their cradles!' snorted Deveren. 'Well, yes. But judging from the letters that have passed between them over the last year or so, it's developing into a love match.'
'You read royal love letters?'
Damir looked slightly embarrassed. 'It's one of my duties, yes. Anyway, Castyll sent a terse note a few days ago, terminating the betrothal.'
Deveren shrugged. 'Now that his father's dead, maybe he doesn't have to pretend he's fond of Cimarys anymore.' He thought of the young Byrnian princess, barely fourteen but already graced with a womanly beauty. A smile tugged at his lips. 'Send him a recent portrait of Cimmy. That should bring him to his senses.'
Damir sighed. 'Dev, could you be serious for once? Since King Shahil's death two months ago, a lot has happened in Mhar. A lot,' he added, 'that does not bode well for future relationships with Byrn.'
Deveren was listening now. Mhar lay only a few leagues to the south, barely a day's travel by ship and only three days by horse. It was the nearest major city, closer even than the closest Byrnian city. War with Mhar would be a dangerous thing for Braedon.
'Such as?' he prompted. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. Had he indeed been the Fox that he was named for, his ears would have been pricked forward.
Pleased that he had gotten his brother's full attention, Damir launched into specifics. 'First of all, they haven't had a coronation for young Castyll. He's fifteen, certainly of age to take the throne. Oh, they're calling him king, all right, but it's obvious that his power exists in name only. He and King Shahil went to Ilantha to stay at the traditional summer palace. Castyll ought to have returned to the capital city of Jarmair immediately upon the death of his father-but he's staying, finishing out the season, just as if nothing's wrong. That's hardly like the boy, from what I know of him. One of his father's counselors, a rather slimy fellow named Bhakir, is regent. It looks like he's the one in charge.'
'What about the other advisors?' queried Deveren. Like Byrn, in Mhar the king's rule was tempered by a circle of 'advisors' who wielded certain powers of their own. Damir smiled without humor.
'Such sad accidents,' he said in a cool, polite tone that sent shivers up Deveren's spine. 'Such dreadful illnesses. We've had trouble with Bhakir in the past, and now that he's in charge we expect more. This sudden end to an engagement that would bring the countries closer together would be suspicious at any time-and it's made even more so by the, uh, clearly genuine interest these two young people seem to have in each other.'
'But Mhar would benefit by an alliance with us,' said Deveren, confused. 'Why — ' 'Mhar would,' Damir clarified, 'but Bhakir wouldn't.'
Deveren nodded slowly. 'So you've got a delayed coronation and a broken love match. What else?'
'Bhakir's been making changes in the top ranks of the military, both land and sea,' continued Damir. 'It would seem that many hitherto trusted generals and admirals were traitors. How lucky that Bhakir discovered their fiendish plots.' If irony were a real substance, Damir's would have burned holes through the beautiful table.
Deveren whistled. 'The bastard wants war, doesn't he?'
'Looks like it. I've been able to get a few messages to and from the beleaguered young prince, though. He wants to set up secret negotiations between his core group of supporters and Byrn, as represented by me.'
'And you want me to see that Braedon would be a safe port,' Deveren concluded. 'Well, you have to admit, having you as the leader of the thieves just might ensure that there would be no criminal incidents, should we host the meetings here.'
Deveren nodded. 'I don't think it'd be a problem.'
'Then your thieves will take kindly to being told 'don't touch'?' Damir teased.
Now it was Deveren's turn to be deadly serious. 'They'll take kindly to preventing war with Mhar. Sweet Lady Death, Damir, Braedon would be their first target. If they could get hold of our seaport..' He didn't even need to finish the thought. He didn't really want to.
'These talks could be of great import,' Damir warned.
'Obviously.'
'Prince Castyll himself might come.'
'Then he can stay at the King's Arms Inn,' quipped Deveren, reaching for the wine goblet and lifting it to his lips.
'He might want to pay… an extended visit. A very extended visit.'
Deveren nearly choked on the ruby-red liquid.
Pedric was having a dreadful night.
Marrika had been stonily silent since she and Pedric had left the thieves' meeting. At first, the young man had respected her silence, but when it dragged on for a quarter of an hour he began to grow annoyed. He tried to take her arm, but she jerked it away. Annoyance blossomed into anger. He seized her arm, securely this time, propelled her over to a quiet alleyway, and demanded, 'What in the Nightlands is wrong with you?'
It was dark, but by the moonlight that filtered its way down past the buildings he could see the rage on her beautiful face. She didn't answer with words, but snarled angrily. Pedric was thoroughly startled when he felt a stinging slap on his cheek. Automatically, his soft aristocrat's hand went to rub the painful area.
'You are such an idiot, Pedric Dunsan!'
'I'm not idiot enough to go shouting our true names in public!' he hissed back.
She sneered. 'So it's Otter, huh? Well, for seven months I've been your woman, and I haven't seen you do a damned thing that a trained otter couldn't do. You humiliated me tonight!' She made a slack-jawed fool's face. 'Uh, sometimes that comes in handy,' she mimicked cruelly.
Pedric felt his face growing hot, and not just from the angry slap. 'I'm not a very good public speaker,' he said.
She laughed, a harsh, angry sound. 'You're not very good at much, Pedric, except spending your papa's money.'
'I've earned my place in the group,' he began in a low, controlled voice.
