man's face, not in the least obscured by the ridiculous painted grin. Deveren was moved. Suddenly, as if Vandaris's feet had been cut out from underneath him, he fell, to be swallowed up by the manic crowd. The last thing Deveren saw of him was horror as his hands reached to clutch his abdomen, as if he were in terrible pain.
No! mourned Deveren. Not Vandaris, too…
'Dev!' The word was shouted, but even so, Deveren barely heard it over the shrieks of the maddened revelers. Pedric, with Allika perched on his shoulders out of the way of trampling feet, stood at the foot of the dais. 'I've got about four dozen doses of the tincture with me right now. Is Damir all right?'
'I'm going to take him to Vervain,' Deveren yelled back. He moved over toward the younger thief, threw himself on his stomach, and spoke urgently into the young man's ear.
'Vandaris is sick,' he said. Pedric groaned in sympathy. 'I saw him go down right over there. He was trying to help-it got him right away. Get him-take him to Rabbit's. Make him take the tincture. Then work with him-we need to dose the guards and then we'll have a prayer of getting this under control, at least a little. I'll get more doses when I see Vervain, and try to catch up with you. Understand?'
Pedric nodded. Allika did too, her little face sober and comprehending. Impulsively, Deveren reached out and fluffed her short hair. She smiled, just a little. Then they were gone.
For just a moment, Deveren watched the insane crowd. They were ripping one another to bits. Gods, did they stand any kind of a chance against this madness? Two thieves, an exhausted Healer, and a little girl. He closed his eyes briefly, but refused to surrender to despair. He would fight this. He would fight this with everything he had in him, down to the last drop of blood. He had to believe there was some way to win, to bring Braedon's people back to their senses. Because if he did not believe it, then the last candle would have gone out indeed, the last hope would be exhausted, and the world would fall to chaos and insanity.
He returned to Kyle and lifted the injured man as gently as he could, then scanned the crowd for the place of safest passage.
Far from the scenes of wanton violence, Marrika sat on the beach near the Braedon port. By the moonlight, she whittled a chunk of whalebone, humming tunelessly.
She had been where the action was, about four hours ago. She had seen the crowds go mad; had watched Khem orchestrate the murder of Damir Larath with pride and satisfaction. Deveren's murder, too, would come tonight. He who had thought to lead the thieves. Thieves who had turned to her, instead.
All things came to her now.
Scritch, scritch. The carving took shape beneath her skilled fingers.
Now the night belonged to the organized. The infiltration had begun. The murders were no longer random, but carefully calculated, as professionals took control of the town. Some of them were from Mhar. But some were her own people.
Scritch, scritch. It was clear now what she was carving. The moonlight glinted on the white bone. A skull grinned back at her. Gently, she kissed the smooth white surface, then continued. There came a brief flicker of light, almost subtle enough to be missed. Marrika rose, absently brushing sand from her buttocks. Her gaze focused, concentrated.
The signal came again. It was time.
Gleefully Marrika picked up the dark lantern and flashed the signal to the ships approaching, mere faint shapes on the horizon.
The answering signal came again, and Marrika's heart began to beat faster. They were coming. Khem had not lied. They were really coming! The approaching Mharian navy and their pirate friends would meet with no resistance. The guards had been among the first to succumb to the curse.
She shivered in the night air, and hugged herself, jumping up and down with delight. At last, she would fully come into her own. Master of thieves, master-no, damn it, mistress — of Braedon, maybe all of Byrn.
She glanced down at the skull she still held clutched in one hand. Softly, she whispered to it, 'Soon it will be Deveren's.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
Your horse is strong beneath you,
Your heart is brave and bold,
So ride, O ride, brave Deveren
Before the night is old.
Ride hard and strong and swiftly,
For in your hands resides
The fate of every Byrnian
And Mharian besides.
Deveren had had nightmares in which he ran as fast as he could, exerting every muscle, fighting to make progress, and never seemed to be able to move a single step. He felt as if he were trapped now in one of those nightmares. The crowd was thick, and both Deveren and the injured man he bore received more blows. Deveren was jostled back and forth, sometimes losing his direction altogether. He fought back panic. He was one of a few sane people still left in the town, and he knew he needed to use that coolness to his advantage — or die, trampled and torn to bits by the rabid mob.
Kyle grew heavier and heavier a weight with each passing moment. Deveren's muscles trembled with exhaustion, but he stubbornly clung to his precious burden. Finally the crowd thinned just a little and he was able to make progress. And when he at last spotted the temple of Health, with its lamps burning in the window and a sense of peace about it sharply at odds with the lunacy running rampant through the streets, Deveren almost sobbed with relief.
He couldn't manage the gate while carrying Kyle. 'Vervain!' he cried out.
The door flew open and the Healer rushed out, immediately assessing the situation and opening the gate for Deveren. 'We've got to get him inside,' gasped Deveren. 'He's been badly hurt… that crazy mob…'
Vervain again moved ahead, opening the door and permitting Deveren to enter. He laid the body on the table. Coming up behind him, Vervain gasped in soft sympathy.
'Your brother… oh, Deveren, I'm sorry.'
'No, it's not. No time to explain. You've got to help him!'
But this time, instead of moving quickly to aid, Vervain merely regarded Deveren with great sorrow in her eyes. 'Deveren… I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for him. It's too late. He must have died some time ago.'
Disbelieving, Deveren bent over the actor. In the warm glow of lamplight, he saw the truth in what the Blesser had said.
'Ah, no,' he whispered in futile protest. 'No, no, no…' When had Kyle died? How long had he been carrying a corpse? Could he have saved the actor had he pushed harder, run faster? He closed his eyes in misery.
'He's dead because of me,' Deveren said softly. 'He's an actor. I hired him to impersonate my brother. They killed Kyle, thinking he was Damir. It's my fault.' He felt the gentle touch of the Healer's hand on his shoulder, turning him around, away from the sight of the dead man.
'And part of you is rejoicing, that it wasn't your brother,' said Vervain. He looked at her, shocked. 'Didn't know Healers could read minds,' he said with a trace of sarcasm.
She smiled, ignoring the barb that had sprung from pain. 'I am a Healer. That means I know people very well. It's all right, Deveren. It was Kyle's time. Death comes when she will, and not even Healers may challenge her.'
Deveren laughed, a short, harsh, angry bark. He turned back to Kyle and closed the single unseeing eye
