Honor Among Thieves (6 page)

“You didn’t tell them about the Thorn,” Honor
said.

Delgar sank down on a boulder and wiped his sleeve
across his face. “If I had, they would have dug through a live
volcano to get to it.”

The elf sat down beside him. “How is it,” she said
hesitantly, “that someone of your ability cannot sense the dagger’s
presence? That much carmite should be drawing you to it like a
loadstone draws iron fillings.”

“Several possibilities come to mind,” the dwarf said.
“Top of the list: Muldonny doesn’t have the Thorn.”

“It was stolen from my people. He bought it from the
thieves.”

“You’re sure of this.”

“They confessed it before they died.”

This was not exactly what Rhendish had said, but
Honor suspected her version lay closer to the truth.

Delgar accepted it with a nod. Dwarves, like elves,
had pragmatic views on how to deal with enemies and thieves.

“Second, he’s keeping it somewhere else.”

“That’s a possibility,” Honor said, “but what place
would be as secure as the fortress that has successfully guarded
the entrance to Sevrin for a dozen human lifetimes?”

“True. The third possibility is that he has cast
magic to hide its presence, same as you elves do.”

“He’s an adept. They don’t use magic.”

“That’s what they say. That might even be what they
believe. But some of the things they make are magic by another
name, and no one can tell me differently.”

Honor saw no reason to dispute this. “So Muldonny has
created an area filled with some sort of alchemical energy that
disguises the Thorn’s powers.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Which would mean he knows more about the Thorn than
any human should.”

Delgar muttered a curse. “I hadn’t thought it in
those terms.” He scrubbed both hands over his face, then sent her a
small, rueful smile. “To be honest, I don’t like the idea of elves
holding onto so much carmite, but at least you people have the
sense not to use it. I’ve yet to meet a well-informed human who
could resist acting on his knowledge.”

“Time is short.”

“Very.” He paused for a thin smile. “But thanks for
not adding ‘and so are you.’”

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Why would I do
that?”

“Why indeed? Apparently I’ve been spending too much
time around humans. So, what do you propose we do next?”

She considered their options in light of these new
possibilities. “Have you ever seen the Thorn?”

Delgar huffed. “Yes, the elves gladly lend it to my
people whenever we can’t be bothered moving vast quantities of
stone around by hand.”

“Oddly enough, I’m in no mood for sarcasm.”

“Do you prefer irony? Because any dwarf I’ve ever met
would see plenty of that in this little rescue mission.”

She supposed he had a point. Most dwarves believed
the carmite in the Thorn had been stolen from one of their ancient
troves.

An idea began to take shape. “Can you work in glass?
If you had to, could you create a credible glass weapon?”

He shot her a quick, insulted glance. “That’s the
first crafting skill a Carmot learns, as well you know.”

“So if I drew the Thorn, you could make a copy. A
replica done in glass rather than crystal.”

The dwarf shifted to face her. “What are you
thinking?”

“We get someone inside the adept’s manor to steal the
Thorn and replace it with a glass replica. Fox could do this?”

Delgar huffed a short laugh. “I doubt there’s a
stronghold in Sevrin that could keep him out. But Muldonny’s not
like Rhendish. He doesn’t take students and receives no tradesmen.
Only his clockwork servants come and go, and a few invited
guests.”

“Then we shall have to intercept an invitation.”

“His guests are all alchemists.”

“We could send Avidan.”

“
Avidan
?”

“Why not? He’s an alchemist.”

“He’s . . . less reliable than you apparently
believe,” Delgar said with careful diplomacy. “And he hasn’t left
the tunnels once since we found him in the mirror room. That was
three, maybe four years ago. There’s no telling how he’d react in
the outside world.”

“Is there anyone else among you who could pass as an
alchemist long enough to get the information we need?”

Delgar’s silence was sufficient answer.

“If you think it might help, someone can go with him
to help keep him focused on the task at hand. The humans of Sevrin
seem to take servants with them wherever they go.”

“That might work,” Delgar said. “Fox seldom works on
Stormwall Island. There are only a few people looking for him
there. Of course, there are fewer people in general. It’s harder to
blend into a crowd.”

“Fairies are generally quite skilled at illusions.
Perhaps Vishni—”

“No,” Delgar said emphatically.

“No?”

“Imagine the last person you’d want to take along
when you’re exploring an adept’s lair, then put that name on a
list. Vishni’s name would be three lines south of it.”

His reaction confirmed Honor’s growing suspicions
about the fairy. “So Vishni is not to be trusted.”

“Oh, you can trust Vishni,” he said. “The problem is,
you can trust her to ‘improve the story.’ And I suspect you’ve
heard enough fairy tales to guess how that generally turns
out.”

“Then why do you keep her around?”

Delgar’s smile held a bitter twist. “Every story
needs a hero. Fairy tales tend to be twisty, but the hero usually
wins. And Vishni sees Fox as an ‘archetype,’ the young trickster
hero who gets the better of wizards and lords with his native
cunning.”

“And if she changes her mind about Fox?”

“Then we’re all fuggled,” the dwarf said bluntly.
“Sideways.”

* * *

Vishni and Fox strolled alongside the shores of
Stormwall Island. The sun was warm, the day was summer-ripe, and
the cherry ice Fox had bought her from a street vendor tasted like
stolen kisses. Best of all, the story unfolding around her promised
enough twists and corners to warrant inclusion in
The Book of
Vishni’s Exile
.

All of this should have made the fairy giddy with
delight. Instead, her mood darkened with each step.

She still smarted from yesterday’s encounter with the
elf, from the tips of her blistered fingers to the depths of her
pride.

And Fox, night take him, could not stop chattering
about the iron-clad wench!

When Vishni could take no more she wheeled around to
face Fox and stomped on his foot. Not hard enough to break bones,
but with enough force to earn her an incredulous stare and a few
moments of blessed silence.

“Muldonny?” she said. “Remember him? The adept who
rules Stormwall Island? Owner of the fortress we plan to
infiltrate? Looks like a fat, balding squirrel?”

That drew a snort of laughter from Fox. “He is
vaguely squirrel-shaped, now that you mention it. And by all
reports, he has a temperament to match. Honor says—”

“I don’t care.”

Truth be told, Vishni didn’t much care for any of
this. Skulking around Stormwall Island, walking bridges with iron
rails she couldn’t touch, watching people slaughter fish that were
in no position to fight back.

At least their trip to the long pier where passenger
ships docked had proved fruitful.

She slipped one hand into a skirt pocket and gave the
contents an affectionate pat. Several visiting alchemists were
listed on the passenger manifests she’d stolen, but one presented
unusually promising storytelling potential.

The name Insa’amid was known in her homeland. If her
suspicions were correct, kidnapping this particular alchemist would
make Fox’s task easier. More importantly, it would add a poignant
touch and maybe even a bit of irony to the unfolding story.

But that was a game for another day. Her gaze skimmed
the wharfs in search of some immediate source of diversion.

Two men struggled to lift a huge, sword-nosed fish
from a wooden boat. Both men were roughly clad, fair-haired, and
strong enough to put up an interesting fight. The older man looked
like he’d had some practice at it. A scar meandered across his
forehead and his nose had that pleasantly bumpy, crooked look of
one that’d been broken a time or two. If there was more damage, it
was hidden by the man’s long blond beard.

Vishni liked long beards. Grabbing hold of them
during a fight was one of her favorite strategies. No one ever
seemed to expect it, which was half the fun.

“I don’t like the looks of that smile,” Fox said.

She adjusted her expression until she was certain no
fluffy kitten had ever looked as innocent.

“See that woman by the nets? The pretty, young one
who’s sorting fish? She has an odd sort of ring.”

“You must have eyes like a hawk. I can’t see it from
here.”

The fairy held up a little silver hoop set with chips
of green and blue sea glass. “Is this better?”

Fox’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing with
that?”

“Keeping it safe! She put it in her apron pocket
before she started working. Taking it from her pocket when we
walked past was as easy as smiling. Anyone could have done it.”

The thief sighed. “We don’t steal from fisherfolk,
Vishni. You know that. They have troubles enough.”

“Oh, the ring will turn up,” she said airily. “Maybe
in her pocket, or on the table, or inside a fish . . .”

Angry voices rose from the dock, where two men
crouched beside a mixture of fish guts and treasure.

Fox squinted toward the pile of gold. Since each coin
was large enough to cover the palm of Vishni’s hand, it made quite
a pile.

“Veldooni currency, Vishni? Seriously?”

The distant land of Veldoon had been on Vishni’s mind
since she’d picked an alchemist to charm and kidnap.

“Why not?”

“If I was going to create an illusion of treasure
spilling out of a fish’s belly, my first choice wouldn’t be coins
from a land-locked desert country. A fist-sized emerald would be
more believable.”

That made sense, but Vishni had never admitted to
making a mistake and saw no reason to start now.

She gestured toward the dock, where the two fishermen
were now standing toe to toe. Their shoulders were squared, their
chests expanded with as much air and male menace as they could
hold.

“Tell me,” she said loftily, “that they don’t look
like men who think bigger means better.”

As she spoke, it occurred to her that humans were a
lot like tomcats. Both tried to make themselves look bigger before
starting a fight. For a moment she considered giving the fishermen
the illusion of tails. In their current frame of mind, those tails
would be very fluffy. And it would be amusing to watch the tails
twitch and swish like an angry cat’s.

The expression on Fox’s face suggested that this
would be more trouble than it was worth.

“What are you up to?” he said.

“Didn’t you notice the way that woman keeps looking
at the younger fisherman?”

“So?”

“So she’s married to the
older
fisherman.” She
beamed. “Want to know how I figured this out?”

“No.”

Vishni ignored this. “The boy who’s carrying away the
baskets of fish she’s sorting? I heard him call her Melina. That’s
the name written on the side of the fishing boat. Humans name boats
after their people. Or maybe it’s the other way around,” she said.
She gave herself a little shake. “Anyway, since the young fisherman
is the one who gutted the fish, he’s obviously the worker and not
the owner.”

“Leave them alone, Vishni.”

“Once, you might have been interested in the plight
of a common fisherman,” she said sadly. “Once, you had a grand and
important quest of your own.”

A flicker of something that humans called “guilt”
skittered across Fox’s face. Vishni didn’t understand this emotion,
but it proved useful every now and again.

“Besides,” she added in a more cheerful tone, “every
collection of stories should have a morality tale of some
sort.”

Fox drew breath to protest. She clapped her hand over
his mouth and tipped her head toward the dock to signify that they
should stop talking and listen.

“The fish is mine,” insisted the bearded fisherman.
“Any treasure in its belly is mine, as well.”

“No man can say I take anything that isn’t mine.” The
young man sent an insolent look toward the fish-sorting woman.
“Leastwise, nothing that isn’t offered.”

The older man’s face darkened as he glanced at the
woman, who’d stopped her work to watch the small drama.

“If it’s my Melina you’re talking about, you’re a
liar. And I can see by that coin in your shirt pocket that you’re a
thief, as well.”

“You know it’s my night to buy ale for the boys.”

“Not with my coin, you won’t!”

The youth sneered and held out hands that were bloody
to the elbow. “You go ahead and reach in after it. If it’s clean,
you’ll know it came from no fish.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the bearded fisherman
thrust his hand into the younger man’s pocket.

Both men stared blankly at the hoop of silver in his
palm.

“Or the ring could turn up in
someone else’s
pocket,” Vishni added demurely.

Fox snatched the real ring from Vishni’s hand and
hurried toward Melina, who was watching this exchange with a white
face and guilty eyes.

“Did you by chance drop this ring?” he asked in a
carrying voice.

Her husband turned toward them, murder simmering in
his eyes. “Another?” he roared. “How many markers do you have out,
woman?”

Before Fox could say another word, both men rushed at
him with raised and ready fists.

Vishni tapped her chin as she watched the brawl.
“Multiple rings,” she murmured. “Yes, that would improve the tale
considerably.”

Until this afternoon, Honor had never felt any desire
to explore Sevrin. It felt strange to be walking the broad streets
and winding, narrow byways like any human.