Elaine Cunningham - Honor Among Thieves

A bit of rummaging in his chest yielded the gaudytunic. To his relief, the locket was tucked in the hip pocket.

He flipped it open and looked inside, expecting theusual lock of hair or miniature painting of some long-deadrelative. Instead, a design of intertwined runes surrounded a nameeveryone in the northlands knew:

Eldreath.

Eldreath, the sorcerer whose long and brutal reignhad given way to the age of adepts and alchemy.

In Fox’s opinion, the new regime wasn’t much of animprovement. This belief stood at the core of his work, his life.He’d never thought to question why he felt as he did.

Until now.

He had grown up hearing stories of the sorcerer’satrocities. But those were just stories. No matter what Vishnisaid, no story could be as powerful as experience.

Fox had seen the work of the adepts and theirGatherers with his own eyes. He’d seen his village attacked, hishome burned. He and his mother had been captured, dragged to thecity, questioned, tortured. What became of his father was somethinghe might never learn.

He didn’t remember much from those terrible days, buthe doubted anyone could forget the tall, blond-bearded Gatherer whokept asking about a bloodline.

Fox had always assumed these questions sprung fromhis mother’s reputation as a green witch. Magic tended to run infamilies, so of course the adepts would want to round up herrelatives. But the locket opened a new door of possibility.

His mother told him it had been passed down in thefamily. Eldreath had lived long past the normally allotted span. Ifhe gave the locket to some lady as a token, she might have passedit down through several generations before it came into Fox’shands.

“A sorcerer’s bloodline,” Fox murmured, unsurewhether he should be appalled or thrilled.

This explained Rhendish’s abiding interest incapturing Fox, and the near-captivity his mother endured within thewalls of the adept’s domain. It also explained Fox’s passion formagic.

It might even explain his personal vendetta againstthe adepts and his determination to take part in their overthrow.According to Vishni’s stories, and for that matter nearly everyother tale Fox had heard, blood and destiny were inseparable.

The only outlying fact was his total lack of anymagical talent.

This revelation was too big for one mind toencompass. Fox pushed himself out of the chair and went looking forDelgar.

The heat hit him while he was still several pacesaway from the dwarf’s workroom. He plunged through a cloud of steamand stepped into the stone chamber.

In the center of the room, flames danced in a stonefire pit. The dwarf sat in a stout wooden chair, his stocky formdraped in a protective leather apron.

Delgar picked up a narrow bar of glass with an irontong and dipped it into the fire. He drew one of several long,slender tools from the coals, wiped it clean on the damp rag drapedover his leather-clad lap, and began to shape the blade. A fewstrokes, then back into the fire went the glass and the iron. Backand forth, bit by steady bit, the dagger took shape.

“This is like watching a river eroding stone,” Foxsaid.

Delgar glanced up. “I’m about to add the handle.Watch if you want, but don’t expect scintillatingconversation.”

“In this workshop?”

The dwarf snorted and reached for a delicately etchedcross guard. He lowered a metal dropper into a beaker sitting amidglowing coals and measured a few drops of clear liquid onto thehilt. Before the glass could cool, he pressed the heated bladeagainst the guard and held it in place.

“Looks like that would break easily.” Fox grimaced.“You know, that sounded a lot more sensible before I said it outloud.”

Delgar shot a quick glance in his direction.“Glassweapons can be surprisingly durable. Dwarves have several reasonsfor making them. But these daggers aren’t meant for fighting.They’re like costumes: meant for effect, not everyday wear.”

“ These daggers? How many are there?”

The dwarf tipped his head toward a table. Fivefinished daggers rested on a soft, thick cloth.

Fox went over for a closer look. “Why so many?”

“Practice, for starters,” Delgar said. “I haven’tworked in glass for more than forty years.”

“They all look perfect.” Fox picked up one of thecurved blades, turned it this way and that to catch the light, andtraded it for another. “They’re also identical.”

“Not quite. Look more closely at the roses.”

At first glance, Fox assumed that the tightly furled,long-stemmed rosebud had been etched into the glass. But it lookedsomehow. . deeper.

He ran his fingertips over the blade to find that itwas perfectly smooth.

“The design is inside the glass! How did youdo this?”

The dwarf put down the cooled glass and stretched.“When you have a few years to spare, I’d be happy to show you. Putthat dagger back and run your eye down the line from left to right.Concentrate on the roses.”

Fox did as he was told. The tight rosebud on thefirst dagger unfurled a bit on the next, and so on until the fifthdagger depicted a half-blown rose.

“The Thorn’s rose opens at sunrise and closes atsunset. There’s no telling exactly when we’ll get into Muldonny’scuriosity room. If you have to make the switch with someonewatching, you’ll have less chance of detection if the copy andoriginal match.”

Fox grimaced. “I should have thought of that. Goodplanning.”

“I’d take credit if I could. It was the elf’s idea.She’s got Avidan working on them, too.”

“Now there’s a frightening thought.”

“He was in here a little earlier. He said he’doffered to treat you for the pox but you declined, so he wasextending the offer to me.” Delgar lifted one eyebrow. “Clearly,Avidan misunderstands the nature of our relationship.”

Fox touched the cut on his forehead. “He made themedicine for this. He had extra.”

The dwarf’s lips twitched as he took in his friend’sbattered face. “Is that the fairy’s handiwork?”

“Indirectly,” Fox said. “She created what you mightcall a misunderstanding with a couple of fishermen. The older onehad a wicked hook.”

The dwarf snorted. “How long have you been waiting touse that line?”

“Oh, I’ve been casting about for an hour or two.” Foxpaused. “We could probably do this for hours.”

“Let’s not.”

The dwarf pushed his chair away from the fire pit andstretched his muscled legs. “Are you going to tell me what’s onyour mind, or do I have to fish for it?”

“I thought we were stopping.”

“Believe it or not, that one was accidental. Changethe subject before someone overhears and kills us both.”

Fox took the locket from his bag and handed it to thedwarf.

Delgar’s gaze went right to the broken clasp. “Thislooks like an easy fix. I’ll get to it tonight.”

“Never mind the clasp. Look inside.”

The dwarf flipped the locket open and studied therunes. Color faded from his forge-reddened face.

“You, my friend, have been dipping into the wrongpockets.”

“The locket isn’t stolen. It was passed down throughmy family.”

A long slow whistle escaped the dwarf. “Are you surethis means what it seems to? The adepts claim that Eldreath’sbloodline had been wiped out.”

“They claim a lot of things.”

“True.”

“If I am descended from Eldreath, I’m making a liarout of Rhendish just by breathing and walking around.”

“How did he find out?” The dwarf grimaced as theanswer came to him. “Your mother.”

“That’s the obvious answer.” The words tasted bitterin Fox’s mouth. “You’ve seen how they left her.”

“If that’s how they got the information, she didn’tmake it easy for them.”