Damin grinned at Orleon's expression and changed the direction he was headed. The Morning Room was on the ground floor, and he took the broad marble steps two at a time, anxious to see his visitor. When he threw open the door, the man in question was holding up a small statue to the light, examining it with the critical eye of an expert.
“It's not worth your attention,” Damin told him, as he closed the door behind him. “You'd get more for the candelabra.”
The fair-haired man slowly replaced the statue on the mantle before he turned to Damin.
“Perhaps. But that's inscribed with the Krakenshield crest. Too easy to trace it back to its source.”
“When has that ever bothered you?”
The man smiled and crossed the room, catching Damin in a crushing bear hug, before holding him at arm's length to look at him closely. Older by two years, but of a much slighter build, his clothes were expertly cut of expensive silk and he wore them with the cavalier air of a nobleman. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and a level of animal cunning that Damin had often envied as a child. He looked prosperous and happy. Business must be good, Damin thought, not altogether pleased by the thought.
“Welcome home, Damin. It's good to see you.”
“It's good to see you too, Starros. How's business?”
“It'll be better now that you're home.”
Damin moved to the sidetable, shaking his head. “I'm sure you mean it as a compliment, old friend, but telling me that my return is going to favour Krakandar's criminal element, really doesn't thrill me.”
He pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured two cups of wine, handing one to Starros with a smile. The thief frowned as he accepted the wine.
“You know what I mean, Damin. All these troops from the Sorcerers' Collective and Elasapine filling up our streets is no good for my people.”
“Maybe I should invite them to stay.”
“Maybe you should invite them to leave,” Starros corrected.
Damin looked at him curiously. “Perhaps you'd better fill me in.”
They settled into the heavily padded chairs on either side of the hearth. The fire burned low - more glowing coals than flame - but it gave off enough heat to take the chill out of the air. Damin carried the decanter with him, certain he would need another drink before Starros was through.
“The Collective troops arrived about a month ago. Kalan made quite an impressive entrance, and then declared the city under the Collective's protection. Your mother arrived before her by a few days, and Narvell and his henchmen got here last week.”
“Why did Kalan place the city under the Collective's protection? That only happens when a Warlord dies without an heir.”
“You'll have to ask Kalan, I'm afraid. I tried to get in to see her, but she doesn't entertain the likes of me since she became High Arrion.”
Damin frowned, wondering what was really going on. He'd had no chance to speak to Kalan alone since he arrived, and she had not sought him out. Even more worrying was Kalan's refusal to see Starros. The leader of the Thieves' Guild was - so rumour claimed - Almodavar's bastard son. He had grown up here in the palace with them and was counted among their closest friends. Even if she could not acknowledge her friendship with Starros openly, she had never refused to see him before.
“What else has been happening since I left?”
“Not much. Things were pretty quiet until your mother got here. But then things always get sticky once she turns up.”
Damin smiled in fond remembrance. “You remember that time she arrived from Elasapine and we'd gone fishing in the woods?”
“The time she found me beating the stuffing out of you in that bog?” Starros laughed. “I remember. Gods, we must have looked a sight. All mud and blood and black eyes.”
“You were not beating me,” Damin corrected. “I was letting you win.”
“You were bawling your eyes out like a baby!”
“I was not!”
“You were so! And I'll never let you forget it, either. It was the only time I ever beat you in a fair fight, Damin Wolfblade.” Starros finished his wine and held out his cup for a refill. Damin shook his head and smiled. It wasn't really worth arguing about. He leaned over and filled the cup without getting out of his chair. Starros sipped the wine appreciatively. “So, I hear you've taken a bride.”
“That's right.”
“A Fardohnyan?”
“That's right.”
“Well, you always did like to live dangerously. Is she pretty?”
“Very.”
“Worth the trouble?”
Damin grinned. “I haven't decided yet.”
Starros chuckled softly. “And the rumour that you have brought the demon child to Hythria? Is that true?”
Damin lowered the cup from his lips and stared at Starros. “Where did you hear that?”
“I have my sources,” the thief told him smugly.
“I'm serious, Starros. How did you hear about it so soon?”
“Soon? Hell, we've known about it for weeks!” He looked at Damin, his smile fading.
“Who told you?”
“It's really bothering you, isn't it? Nobody told me, not in the way you're thinking. It was a bit odd, actually. About six or seven weeks ago, an old man appeared in the city. Didn't bother anyone at first, just roamed the streets trying to convince the working court'esa that their eternal souls were in danger if they didn't renounce their way of life. He stood on a few street corners and gave speeches that nobody listened to. You know the type. We average about one prophet a month in a good year, so we paid him little attention.”
“But —” Damin prompted, certain there was more to the story.
“Do you remember Limik the Leopard?” Starros asked.
“Tall fellow? Scarred hands?”
Starros nodded. “He burned them as a child.”
“Didn't I have him flogged once for beating his wife?”
“That's the one. Hard case through and through.”
“I remember him,” Damin said. “What's he got to do with the old man?”
“I'm getting to that. I sent Limik out on a job... oh, about three weeks ago, I think. A certain merchant in Felt Street had a bad habit of leaving his wife's jewellery laying about the house. In our profession, that sort of carelessness can't be allowed to go unpunished.”
“Of course not,” Damin agreed wryly.
“Anyway, Limik's an old hand at that sort of thing, so I sent him out to teach our merchant friend a lesson. He did the job and was on his way back to the Guild when he bumped into the old man.”
“What happened?”
“Limik went back to the house, confessed his crime to the merchant - who didn't even realise he'd been robbed - and from that day on, he followed the old man around like a puppy, telling anyone who'd listen that he'd denounced Dacendaran, and was now a follower of another god.”
“Which other god?”
“He didn't say. But he used the word 'sin' a lot.”
Damin frowned. “That sounds like Xaphista.”
“Not even Limik, in the throes of religious ecstasy, is stupid enough to use that name out loud in the streets of Krakandar,” Starros said. “But after that day, the old man changed his tune. He started talking about you. Said you'd allied yourself with the godless ones - I guess he meant the Medalonians - and that you were consorting with the demon child. Next thing you know, Kalan turns up with her troops and places the city under the Collective's protection.”
“Where is this old man now?”
“Gone,” Starros shrugged. “As soon as I got word you were on your way home, I sent my people out to find him. He's dropped out of sight. Vanished as if he was never here.”