Elaine Cunningham: Honor Among Thieves

The man had the nerve to look affronted. “Do you seechains on your wrists? Bars on the door? This is not a dungeon, andI am no barbarian.

“I am Rhendish,” he said, naming himself in tones ofsolemn majesty. “I am one of seven adepts who rule the city ofSevrin. As such, I share responsibility for keeping order andseeing justice done. Justice,” he said, tapping his forehead withthe fingertips of one hand. He moved that hand down to rest overhis heart. “Not revenge.”

Clearly, his understanding of such things differedfrom hers. Revenge required thought and planning. Elven justice, onthe other hand, tended to be swift and certain.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself to hearhard truths.

“And the others?”

Regret washed over the man’s face. “Only yousurvived.”

Later, she reminded herself. Later shecould mourn.

“The ground was frozen too hard to permit burial. Mymen gathered the bodies beneath a single stone cairn.”

She nodded. That was not their way, but it wouldsuffice for now. No elven secrets would be revealed by tooth andworm and weather. No elven bones would sing to the touch ofstarlight.

But there remained one way the forest people could beundone. Speaking of it was dangerous, but she saw no otherchoice.

She took a moment to observe her surroundings,seeking clues to Rhendish’s nature.

A dizzying array of colors assaulted the eye, comingfrom a hodge-podge of bottles, books, and countless oddly shapedpieces of metal. Shelves lined the white-stone walls. Scrolls andstacks of parchment littered a long writing table fashioned frompolished wood. Richly embroidered hangings covered the windows andrippled in muted winds. The overall impression was wealth andchaos.

There was, however, a sense of purpose underlying theclutter. Books stood in neat rows. All the bottles and vials andbeakers bore tidy labels. Some of the metal objects appeared to besmall tools, and the high, narrow platform on which she’d sleptseemed more akin to a worktable than a bed.

She’d heard that some humans were like ravens,filling their nests with a hoard of shiny things for no betterreason than the urge to possess them. Rhendish, she sensed, was notsuch a man. Perhaps he would not covet what was hers.

“I had a curved knife,” she said, speaking asdiffidently as she could. “Fashioned of pale metal, with a roseetched onto the blade. A pretty trifle.”

This was a lie, of course. The weapon was beyondprice, grown from a rare and powerful crystal, and the rose withinit bloomed when fed a traitor’s blood.

“Your sister spoke of it before she died. It wouldseem-”

His words were lost in a sound like winter’s cruelestwinds. The room spun in a mad whirl of color and chaos and griefand the scent of herbs meant to drown pain in oblivion.

“Drink this.”

She pushed away the cup Rhendish held to her lips.Elves used such herbs when cutting arrows from flesh or tending achildbirth gone wrong-pain of great intensity but short duration.Sorrow passed too slowly for such remedies.

“A thousand pardons,” he murmured. “I spoke abruptlyand without proper care. It is no easy thing to hear of a lovedone’s death.”

This was true, but elves accepted death in wayshumans did not. What shocked her to the core was that Asteria wouldtell any human about the Thorn.

But then, wasn’t she doing precisely that?

“What did she say?”

“She did not speak the trade tongue as well as youdo, but as I understand it, the knife had some ceremonialimportance. She was most insistent that it be returned to herpeople.”

This did not ring true, either. Asteria would burythe Thorn in her own belly before she’d entrust it to a human.

“It was taken by one of the attackers,” Rhendishsaid, almost as if he could read her mind, “and sold before my mencaught up with them.”

He spoke on, but his words could not part the tangledvines of her thoughts.

The grove defiled, the judgment circle destroyedbefore the traitor could be uncovered. The Thorn lost among humans!She had to recover it, and soon.

No solution came to her. After a time she becameaware that Rhendish stood silent, a wry smile on his face.

“I doubt you heard one word in ten. Here it is inbrief: I have determined the knife’s whereabouts and conceived of away that you might retrieve it.”

She regarded him for a long moment. “Why would you dothis?”

“I won’t try to convince you of my altruism,” he saidwith dry humor. “The answer to your question is complicated, but itbegins with this: Seven adepts rule this city- seven , becauseno single man can be trusted with too much power, and adepts , because no man can be trusted with magic.”

She began to see the path ahead. “You have men atyour command. The other adepts must also. You think one of themsent gatherers to steal elven magic.”

A burst of startled laughter escaped him.“ That far I had not gone! I suppose it is possible, but morelikely Muldonny’s agents merely purchased the dagger after thefact.” His gaze sharpened. “Why? What magic does the daggerhold?”

She lifted one shoulder in the dismissive gestureshe’d seen humans use. “I spoke of intent, not result. The daggeris finely crafted and very old, but that is all.”

“I suspected as much,” he said with satisfaction.“Muldonny fancies himself an expert on elven matters, but I’ve longsuspected that any genuine knowledge he possesses could bepainlessly inscribed on his thumbnail.”

“So you suggest I trade ‘genuine knowledge’ forit?”

“No! Muldonny is. .”

He paused, considered.

“Persistent,” he said, in the manner of one who hasconsidered every word that dwelt within the realm of truth, only tochoose the palest and weakest. “Muldonny would not be content withsmall bits of history and lore. In fact, it would be best if he didnot learn of your presence in Sevrin. Elves, you see, do notofficially exist.”

“Nor do our handiworks, I suppose.”

He spread his hands, palms up. “You begin to see theproblem. No one denies the existence of elf-crafted items, but itis widely supposed that any artifact of the old races must holdancient and dangerous magic.”

“If such magic is bad, why would any adept want topossess it?”

“Why indeed?” he said darkly. “That is an importantquestion. It is not, however, a question that can roam free amongthe general populace.”

“So you are protecting this adept, even though yoususpect him of doing wrong.”

“I am protecting Sevrin,” he snapped. “The Council ofadepts stands between the city and any who might use sorceryagainst it. Can you imagine what might follow if the peoplebelieved one of the adepts was smuggling weasels into the henhouse?Muldonny cannot be accused. Your elven trinket must be acquiredunofficially.”

“Stolen.”

A smile flicked the corners of his lips. “Yes,stolen. I know of a thief who’s elusive enough to handle the joband foolish enough to take it on. For reasons that will soon becomeclear, he must hear of your need from your lips.”

She noted the twitch of chagrin on the adept’s faceas he spoke of this thief and began to understand.

“I get the knife, you get the thief.”

Rhendish bowed. “Succinctly put.”

“And if I refuse to betray a man who would do thissimply because I ask it of him?”

“I don’t believe you will,” he said hesitantly, “butthat is a question we both need to answer.”

He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers. One ofthe window hangings slid open. The clockwork servant emerged fromthe curtained alcove and clanked toward her, leaving the curtainpushed to one side.

The hideous thing approached unheeded, for she couldnot tear her gaze from the windows lining the curving wall of thealcove, and the late summer garden beyond.