to escape his notice, but she held up a commanding hand. The words died in his throat. 'Be careful,' she repeated, 'on this night of nights. Sometimes mortals try to cheat Lady Death. I am the First who comes. Be prepared for the others.'
Without another word, and completely ignoring his half-voiced query, the Blesser of Death turned her back on him and strode into the shadows, which reached to hide her as if she hadn't been there at all.
Deveren's throat was dry. His heart slammed against his chest and he found his hands were shaking. He leaned back against the wall. What had she seen? What did she know? Was she just trying to frighten him with her strange pronouncement? What was all that nonsense about 'first' and 'others?' One thing was for certain. He did need to be careful. Deveren couldn't believe he hadn't heard or seen her approach.
He calmed himself, took a deep, steadying breath, and composed his features. By the time he ran lightly up the steps to reenter the Councilman's Seat, he had an easy smile for the guards on duty. Deveren Larath had clearly gone for a stroll in the pleasant night air; nothing more.
He walked down the hall, keeping his movements loose and comfortable in case anyone was watching, and paused by the doors to the large hall. Within, he could hear the clear voice of the 'Queen' railing against her enemy, hear the answering rumble of the Captain of the Guards as he protested his innocence. Halfway through the first act, then. Plenty of time.
Deveren's normal cocksurety began to return in some small measure. He'd been badly shaken, first by the dire combination of dogs and guard, and then later by the uncanny visitation of Death's earthly representative. Now he reminded himself that he had finished two of the three tasks that had been set to him, and the third-stealing a hairbrush! — was certain to be the easiest.
He ambled guilelessly through the halls, smiling at everyone he met, conducting himself as if he belonged. He was known and recognized, and encountered no difficulty.
He entered the wing that housed the private solars, and quietly began poking his head into room after room. At last he came to the one that must belong to Lorinda.
It was simple, almost austere, as befitted one who had lived most of her life in devotion to her deity. There was only a trunk, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a bed. The stone walls had been whitewashed, and though Deveren did not dare light a candle that might signify his presence, there was plenty of illumination pouring through the opened door and striking those clean, unadorned white walls.
No, not quite unadorned. A painting graced one of the walls. Directly beneath it was a small rush mat, a basin full of dried flowers, and an unlit candle. Curious, Deveren stepped forward and peered at the painting. It was small and crudely done, probably the work of Lorinda herself, but the image was unmistakable. It was Love, the naked little child, embracing her sacred beast, a fawn as young and innocent as herself. At once Deveren realized that the rush mat and its attendant items were the girl's private altar, and he stepped back hastily.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw still more flowers. Clearly, young Lorinda went to the Garden every day and festooned her austere quarters with the one decoration that most pleased her goddess. A smile touched Deveren's lips. This glimpse into her private room revealed a great deal about the girl-no, the woman, he mentally corrected himself. And he liked what he saw.
But time was passing, and the longer he dallied, the more likely it was that he would get caught. The thought snapped him out of his reverie, and at once Deveren's eye became critical, exploratory, us he began to seek out Lorinda's hairbrush.
He did not find it. Deveren frowned to himself. In a place this clean, this uncluttered, it ought to be a simple matter. He placed his back to the door and began analyzing the room, inch by inch. The bed. Its coverings were not tousled. The blankets lay neatly over the pallet, the single pillow hid nothing. He patted the bed down gently, careful not to disturb anything.
He examined the top of the little table. Bare, save for the empty basin and pitcher full of water. Where would a young woman keep her personal items? Kastara had always left hers lying about. She was rather bad about it, actually, and Deveren was always finding hairpins or combs or mirrors in the most unlikely places…
The trunk. He knelt beside it and opened it. It was not locked, to his surprise and pleasure. Inside were several winter furs, many of Lorinda's clothes, and a small, simple, wooden box. Beside the box, glittering in the dim light, was the girl's jewelry-a necklace, earrings, and some brooches.
Deveren frowned. Why would the jewels be out of the -
Deveren picked up the box and shook it gently. Something about the size and weight of a hairbrush clunked inside. Deveren's confusion turned to annoyance. Pedric, of course. To add just a bit more spice to the quest, it was clear that the younger thief must have taken the one box that Lorinda would have bothered to lock-her jewelry box-and put the brush inside. Naturally, it wouldn't have occurred to Pedric to worry about the baubles.
I'll have to think of something to do to Pedric in retaliation for this, Deveren thought darkly. In the meantime, he'd have to open the cursed thing. It wouldn't do to abscond with the box-too noticeable. He hadn't expected to have to use his tools, but he had thought it best to be prepared. Now he was grateful for his foresight.
Deveren squatted back, pulled out the little box, closed the trunk lid, and placed the box on the trunk. He found his lockpicking tools, leaned forward, and examined the jewelry box. It was a simple wooden box, not even decorated. The lock appeared to be equally straightforward. Deveren moved the box so the light shone full upon it, and positioned one slender metal tool inside, moving it about experimentally. Then he twisted.
Nothing.
Odd. The locking mechanism must be more complicated than he had first thought. Now Deveren took the second tool and inserted it into the lock as well. His concentration narrowed, and he focused his thoughts, reaching out with his hand magic skills to augment his slim, delicate fingers. Too much pressure and the lock would break; too little, it wouldn't open.
Scritch, scrape. Unaware that he did so, Deveren gnawed his lower lip. He extended his thoughts, making them an expansion of his fingers. Something was in there, blocking his tools. Grimly, he applied more pressure, increasing it until he was pressing down hard against the blockage.
In the back of his mind, far away from his intense focus, a warning bell sounded. There was something wrong with this, something very wrong indeed.
Be careful, Lord Larath…
Just as he pressed as hard as he could with his tools, Deveren realized what the wrongness was.
There was a loud snap and Deveren, gasping, threw himself backward, acting more on gut instinct than on logical thought. Something sprang at his face with the angry sound of a buzzing insect. He felt a sharp sting and clapped his hand to his cheek. At that same instant he heard a click and the box opened.
What in the Nightlands was going on here?
Cautiously, Deveren glanced into the box. There it was, the simple boar bristle hairbrush that had cost him so much effort. He picked the box up, absently sticking the brush in his pouch, and turned it to the moon's light.
It was a simple box, padded with linen, clearly designed to hold a modest girl's meager collection of jewels. But there was another, smaller box inside it, made of metal. This had been crudely fastened to the locking mechanism and had clearly never been part of the original design.
He was more confused than before. Pedric might have put the brush inside a locked box to provide his friend with more of a 'challenge,' but he had no skills that would enable him to set a trap like this. Neither did anyone else in Deveren's rather ragtag little group. For now that it was sprung, Deveren could see that it was clever, for all its simplicity. No, not merely clever-professional. Inside was the broken bit of his lockpick, wedged in firmly. There was also a small sliver of metal that clearly had been held in place by a tiny latch. When he'd sprung it, it had snapped forward, and a sliver of something white had shot out.
Deveren peered closer. It was a thin needle — or part of one. The same movement that had broken his lockpicking tool had also snapped this long sliver of what looked to be carved bone. Deveren remembered the small thing that had shot at his face, scratching it. Had he not broken the needle, it would have jabbed deeply into his fingers; had he not jerked back in time, it would have embedded itself in the soft flesh of his face.
Again, his hand went to his cheek, felt the already drying blood. Placing the box down, he turned and knelt, groping oh so carefully for the broken needle amid the rushes on the floor. He remembered where it had fallen and soon found it. Gingerly, he placed it in his palm and carried it to the open window for closer inspection.
It was a carved bone needle, all right. And there was something on it, something viscous and dark in the moon's silvery glow. Deveren brought it to his nose and sniffed. His eyes widened in horror.
