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  Chyler slipped her arm through his and smiled. “I’m happy to keep your little secret, Brak, but no matter how much you try to forget it, you’re still the Halfbreed. You’re a legend, whether you want to be or not.”

  “Look, I’ve been here for the better part of twelve years, Chyler …” he began. It sounded a long time but to Brak it meant very little. Twelve years for a man who had lived for more than seven hundred was barely any time at all.

  “Ever since I hauled you out of that pile of corpses they tossed over the wall at Westbrook the night we first met,” she reminded him.

  “Exactly. And in all that time, have you ever seen me do anything that might lead you to believe I have any sort of magical powers?”

  “No,” she conceded. “I believe it was releasing all the prisoners in Westbrook while looking for a child rumoured to be a sorcerer that convinced me. Or it might have been you making a hidden gate appear in a solid stone wall that you knew about because apparently you were at Westbrook when they built the place six hundred years ago. Or maybe it was the fact you survived being run through and tossed over the walls of Westbrook? Or the fact you seem to be able to speak to the gods at will. Should I go on?”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” he insisted. “Other people speak to the gods.”

  “But you’re the only person I’ve ever met who gets a response.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” he suggested with a thin smile. “Maybe I’m just some lunatic who hears voices in his head and thinks the gods are talking to him.”

  “Maybe. But that wouldn’t account for Wrayan Lightfinger telling me you were the Halfbreed.”

  “You shouldn’t believe anything a thief tells you, Chyler.”

  She laughed. “That’s a bit rich, coming from the man who claims he was just talking to the God of Thieves.”

  Brak smiled. “Exactly my point. Never believe anything a thief tells you.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Does that mean I shouldn’t believe you, when I ask if you’ll keep an eye on things here for a while?”

  “You’re going somewhere?”

  “I’ve been summoned.”

  “By whom?”

  “The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook.”

  “What does he want with you?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Brak was quite alarmed at the prospect. “You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?”

  “Is there some reason you think I shouldn’t?”

  “Hmmm …” Brak said, feigning deep thought. “Can I think of a reason why you shouldn’t meet with the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook? It couldn’t possibly be because the last time you visited Westbrook you got arrested, I suppose? Or the fact there’s a price on your head for killing the head of the Qorinipor Thieves’ Guild? Maybe I just don’t like the idea—”

  “All right!” she cut in impatiently. “I get your point! And it’s a crazy one. The last Plenipotentiary was killed eight years ago. And on the subject of being wanted for Danyon Caron’s murder … well, that’s all your fault, anyway.”

  “My fault?”

  “It was your friend, remember, who set the guild straight on who exactly plunged a knife into the back of that perverted little cretin. Up until Wrayan Lightfinger opened up his big trap, nobody knew I had anything to do with it.”

  “I believe Wrayan opened his big trap, as you so eloquently put it, to set the record straight because the Qorinipor Thieves’ Guild was threatening to have an assassin sent after him.”

  “He has no honour,” Chyler declared with a wounded look. “He ratted on a fellow thief.”

  “You were going to let him die for a murder you committed, Chyler. Where’s the honour in that?”

  “He could have blamed someone else,” she said, a little uncomfortably. “He didn’t have to tell them the truth.”

  “So it would have been better to blame an innocent person?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “No, what you mean is, you think Danyon Caron deserved to die and it seems patently unfair anybody should be called to atone for it, least of all you.”

  She glared at him. “If you know what I mean, Brak, why do you argue with me about it?”

  “Because I can.” He recognised the determined expression on her face. “You’re still going to go to Westbrook, though, aren’t you?”

  “There might be a profit in it for us.”

  “There might be a gallows waiting for you, too,” he countered.

  She paused, appreciating his concern, although it was clear she had no intention of letting it get in her way. “Just promise me you’ll look after things here while I’m gone, Brak. I can take care of myself.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?” She looked quite puzzled by his refusal. “Are you saying you don’t think I can look after myself?”

  “No, I’m saying I won’t look after things while you’re gone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m coming to Westbrook with you.”

  “Why?”

  Brak shrugged. “I’m supposed to be a legendary hero, remember? Maybe, if I go along to watch your back, I’ll get to do something heroic.”

  Chyler looked at him for a long moment and then, instead of smiling at his joke, she nodded slowly in understanding. “You’re leaving us, aren’t you?”

  Brak hesitated before answering, and then finally he shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I’ve certainly contemplated the idea.” He didn’t add the reason he’d been thinking about it so much. A man had a much better chance of dying in battle than while robbing trading caravans in the Widowmaker Pass.

  “I’ll miss you. We all will.”

  “I actually haven’t said I was leaving, yet.”

  “You don’t have to,” Chyler told him. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Chyler .. :”

  She held up her hand to stop him saying anything more. “Look, you don’t have to explain. Not to me. I don’t know what you’ve been hiding from these past twelve years, Brak, and I don’t really care. But it’s eating you alive. I’ve always known that. And I’ve always known whatever you’re trying to run from would eventually chew through that rock-hard shell you’ve so carefully built around yourself and finally hit a nerve. And when it did, you’d have to go.”

  “It’s not you, Chyler, or anyone here.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course I mind,” she said. “You’re the best sword I’ve got. But I’ll cope. Chyler’s Children drove fear into the hearts of caravan traders the length and breadth of the Widowmaker long before you came along, my friend, and we’ll keep doing it long after you’re gone. Nobody is indispensable, Brak. Not even the Halfbreed.”

  “I’ll stay until after you’ve spoken to the Plenipotentiary,” he offered. “Just in case he’s planning anything nasty.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I won’t forget you, Chyler.”

  “Ten years from now you won’t even remember my name,” she predicted.

  “Ten years from now, Chyler,” Brak replied seriously, with as much hope as conviction, “I’ll be dead.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wrayan’s suggestion that Starros should honour Dacendaran whilst seeking revenge against the man responsible for his lover’s death struck a chord in the young man’s heart. Over the next few days he found himself thinking of little else. The need to do . something—anything—to make Mahkas pay for his crimes consumed every waking moment and more than a few of his dreams, too. Secretly, he welcomed the distraction. Plotting all manner of dreadful ends for Mahkas Damaran kept his mind off other things. It kept him from having to face his loss. It kept him from having to deal with his new status as a disciple of the God of Thieves.

  But mostly, it kept him from having to feel anything, because that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  Starros was coping with the disco
very that Damin had ordered his soul traded for a quick recovery better than anybody—Wrayan and Kalan included—suspected. What he couldn’t face was the emptiness, the certain knowledge that Leila was gone and it was his fault. If he’d only turned her away, the first time she came to his room. If he’d only faced the truth about their relationship and made Leila face it sooner. Perhaps then, it might have been over before it started. Over before they could fall in love. Over before Mahkas could find them in each other’s arms. Over before Leila could be made to believe he was dead and she could take her own life to join him in the afterlife.

  Despite what he’d said to her, Starros didn’t really blame Kalan. His outburst a few days ago had been prompted by frustration as much as anger. He was helpless, hiding down here in the Beggars’ Quarter. Helpless and hopeless, not sure where he belonged, just certain he no longer had a place in the life he’d once known as the Chief Assistant Steward of Krakandar Palace.

  He was angry at Damin, too, for ordering this drastic change in his circumstances and then leaving him to cope with it alone. It might have been easier to deal with, had Damin been here. At least then, Starros would have something to rail at, a focus for his torment. But Damin had left Krakandar to attend to more important issues. He was Hythria’s heir and the fate of a friend came a distant second to the security of the nation.

  The thought both cheered and chilled Starros. Someday, Starros knew, when Damin ascended to the throne, Hythria would finally have a prince prepared to put his nation ahead of his personal concerns, something of which no High Prince had been capable for generations. At the same time, it meant Damin was far more ruthless than any of his recent predecessors. If that thought had occurred to Starros then, eventually, it would occur to the other Warlords, and it might begin to worry them. Worried Warlords, Starros knew, had a bad habit of sharpening their knives. Or hiring the Assassins’ Guild.

  “Why the long face?”

  Starros, tucked away out of sight in a booth at the back of the Pickpocket’s Retreat, looked up at the man who spoke. He was a tall, balding man in his late forties, his forger’s fingers stained with ink.

  Starros frowned, not appreciating the interruption. He’d sought refuge here in the hope of remaining anonymous. The heavy beams holding up the low ceiling, the dim lighting and the low hum of conversation gave the taproom a cosy, dark feel that suited Starros’s mood well. “Was I looking miserable, Luc? How surprising, seeing as how I’ve got so much to sing and dance about, too.”

  Luc North, Wrayan’s second-in-command, smiled grimly, taking the padded bench opposite Starros uninvited. “Wrayan said you might need cheering up.”

  “Can you raise the dead?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing you can do for me, Luc.”

  “How ’bout a little distraction then?”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll go honour Dacendaran,” Luc suggested. “I know a house over on Weller Street where there’s a jewellery box just begging to be lifted. And a very obliging lady of the house, too. She could teach you the finer points of ‘taking than the silverware.’”

  “Isn’t that what you thieves call rape?”

  Luc was obviously offended by the question. “Let’s get something cleared up right now, my friend. No thief rapes anyone while honouring Dacendaran and lives to tell about it.”

  “I never realized your people aspired to such a high moral standard.”

  “Hang around a bit longer,” Luc advised. “You’d be surprised what us people believe.”

  “I’m sorry, Luc. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. I’m just not in the mood for honouring anybody at the moment, least of all the god to whom I now apparently belong.”

  “It could be worse,” the forger said philosophically.

  “How?” Starros asked.

  He smiled crookedly. “They might have sold your soul to Kalianah. You’re a good-looking lad. I reckon you’d have been worn out in a month if you were stuck honouring the Goddess of Love seven or eight times a day.”

  Despite himself, Starros smiled, too. “There is that to be thankful for, I suppose.”

  “It’s not such a bad life, you know,” Luc told him. “And considering what’s happened to you lately, old son, it’s a bloody miracle you’re here to enjoy it.”

  “I suppose,” Starros agreed, wondering what part of Leila killing herself constituted a miracle.

  “So, you interested in a little excursion, or not?”

  Starros shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m ready for any … excursions … just yet.”

  “Well, just let me know when you are. I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  Starros looked at him curiously. “Wrayan’s placed you in charge of my conversion to the God of Thieves, has he?”

  “Only because he’s going away.”

  That was something Starros hadn’t known. “Where’s he going?”

  “Greenharbour,” Luc replied. “He and Lady Kalan are leaving tomorrow. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “I heard Kalan talking about it, but I didn’t realise they were planning to depart so soon.”

  “I gather if Lady Kalan had her way, they’d have ridden out of Krakandar on Damin Wolfblade’s heels.”

  The feeling that his own woes were a secondary concern in the rapidly escalating threat facing Hythria left Starros feeling quite irrelevant. “Well, I suppose now I’m all better, they don’t need to worry about me.”

  “It’s not like you to be so petulant, lad.” Luc was obviously trying to be sympathetic, but Starros wasn’t in the mood for pity.

  “Nothing’s the same as it used to be, Luc,” he replied, swallowing the last of his ale and climbing to his feet. “Me, most of all.”

  He turned for the door at the back of the taproom, thinking the solitude of the safe house he’d been so desperate to escape an hour ago was suddenly the most attractive thing on offer. Luc caught his wrist as Starros walked past him.

  “Just remember, lad, ‘taking more than the silverware’ is a game two people have to play willingly. The last thief in Krakandar who thought he could get away with rape died the very next day.”

  “Who killed him?” Starros asked, curious, in spite of himself.

  “The man who takes care of all the guild’s difficult problems,” Luc replied. “The head of the guild. Wrayan Lightfinger.”

  CHAPTER 4

  News that the plague was on the wane sent waves of relief through the citizens of Greenharbour. The discovery of an ancient Harshini text in the Sorcerers’ Collective Library detailing the management of the disease had been a great boon. Marla had seen to it the news got about that old Bruno Sanval, the Lower Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, was responsible for this remarkable discovery and their subsequent triumph over the spread of the disease. Originally, Marla had helped fan the rumour to prevent Alija from taking the credit, but now the tale served an even better purpose. It gave the elusive Bruno Sanval standing with the people of Greenharbour, and with the other members of the Sorcerers’ Collective. When Alija fell, there would be no power vacuum into which another despot could step. The transition of power in the Sorcerers’ Collective once Alija was dead, she had decided, would be smooth and barely noticeable.

  All the best transitions of power were.

  There had been no new cases for days now and Marla was seriously considering opening the city gates for the first time in almost three months. Of course, as the problem of the plague began to wane, it merely highlighted all the other problems piling up around her. She sighed wearily. It’s going to take months to sort out the mess.

  “There’s only one solution,” Marla remarked aloud, without looking up from the report she was reading. This one detailed the woes of that popular disaster area known as the Greenharbour docks and was even more depressing than the report on the dire state of the felting business she’d just put aside because she was in no mood to deal with it. “The Retreat Season has to
go.”

  When Marla received no answer, she looked up and realised she was alone in her brother’s study with nothing more than his repulsive murals for company. The candles flickered faintly in the breeze coming from the open windows on her right. Once again, she realized with a start, she’d forgotten Elezaar was dead. Even though it was more than two weeks since they’d buried his child-sized body in the garden of her townhouse next to her late husband, Ruxton Tirstone, the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

  Marla’s eyes misted at the pain of the dwarf’s betrayal. It was not, however, the fact that he had told her worst enemy, Alija Eaglespike, her innermost secrets before taking his own life that both pained and infuriated the princess, it was his temerity in taking his own life afterwards to escape her wrath. Elezaar was a slave. By rights, he had no will of his own.

  How dare you fear me? How dare you leave me to carry this burden alone?

  “Did you call, your highness?”

  Her brother’s seneschal, Corian Burl, stood in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his features shadowed by the candelabra he held. He must have been waiting outside the door, in case the princess needed him.

  Marla shook her head. “I was just thinking out loud. Do you think there’d be much of an outcry if my brother abolished the Retreat Season, Corian?” Although everything Marla did, she did in her brother’s name, they both knew the High Prince barely even glanced at anything Marla put in front of him for his signature. If anybody was planning to abolish the custom of ordering the Warlords and their retinues out of the capital over the sweltering Greenharbour summer, it certainly wasn’t Lernen Wolfblade.

  The old slave shrugged. “I suspect opinion would be fairly evenly split, your highness. There are just as many highborn who look forward to the Retreat Season as there are those who curse it. Were you … or rather, the High Prince, thinking of abolishing the custom?”

  “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to afford the luxury of a three-month-long vacation this year, Corian.”

  The slave stepped into the room and closed the door behind him before answering. “If the High Prince abolishes this custom, even temporarily, it will be impossible to reinstate it, your highness. I’d be very sure I can live with the consequences before making such a decision if I were … the High Prince.”