The trunk. He knelt beside it and opened it. It was not locked, to his surprise and pleasure. Inside were several winter furs, many of Lorinda's clothes, and a small, simple, wooden box. Beside the box, glittering in the dim light, was the girl's jewelry-a necklace, earrings, and some brooches.
Deveren frowned. Why would the jewels be out of the -
Deveren picked up the box and shook it gently. Something about the size and weight of a hairbrush clunked inside. Deveren's confusion turned to annoyance. Pedric, of course. To add just a bit more spice to the quest, it was clear that the younger thief must have taken the one box that Lorinda would have bothered to lock-her jewelry box-and put the brush inside. Naturally, it wouldn't have occurred to Pedric to worry about the baubles.
I'll have to think of something to do to Pedric in retaliation for this, Deveren thought darkly. In the meantime, he'd have to open the cursed thing. It wouldn't do to abscond with the box-too noticeable. He hadn't expected to have to use his tools, but he had thought it best to be prepared. Now he was grateful for his foresight.
Deveren squatted back, pulled out the little box, closed the trunk lid, and placed the box on the trunk. He found his lockpicking tools, leaned forward, and examined the jewelry box. It was a simple wooden box, not even decorated. The lock appeared to be equally straightforward. Deveren moved the box so the light shone full upon it, and positioned one slender metal tool inside, moving it about experimentally. Then he twisted.
Nothing.
Odd. The locking mechanism must be more complicated than he had first thought. Now Deveren took the second tool and inserted it into the lock as well. His concentration narrowed, and he focused his thoughts, reaching out with his hand magic skills to augment his slim, delicate fingers. Too much pressure and the lock would break; too little, it wouldn't open.
Scritch, scrape. Unaware that he did so, Deveren gnawed his lower lip. He extended his thoughts, making them an expansion of his fingers. Something was in there, blocking his tools. Grimly, he applied more pressure, increasing it until he was pressing down hard against the blockage.
In the back of his mind, far away from his intense focus, a warning bell sounded. There was something wrong with this, something very wrong indeed.
Be careful, Lord Larath…
Just as he pressed as hard as he could with his tools, Deveren realized what the wrongness was.
There was a loud snap and Deveren, gasping, threw himself backward, acting more on gut instinct than on logical thought. Something sprang at his face with the angry sound of a buzzing insect. He felt a sharp sting and clapped his hand to his cheek. At that same instant he heard a click and the box opened.
What in the Nightlands was going on here?
Cautiously, Deveren glanced into the box. There it was, the simple boar bristle hairbrush that had cost him so much effort. He picked the box up, absently sticking the brush in his pouch, and turned it to the moon's light.
It was a simple box, padded with linen, clearly designed to hold a modest girl's meager collection of jewels. But there was another, smaller box inside it, made of metal. This had been crudely fastened to the locking mechanism and had clearly never been part of the original design.
He was more confused than before. Pedric might have put the brush inside a locked box to provide his friend with more of a "challenge," but he had no skills that would enable him to set a trap like this. Neither did anyone else in Deveren's rather ragtag little group. For now that it was sprung, Deveren could see that it was clever, for all its simplicity. No, not merely clever-professional. Inside was the broken bit of his lockpick, wedged in firmly. There was also a small sliver of metal that clearly had been held in place by a tiny latch. When he'd sprung it, it had snapped forward, and a sliver of something white had shot out.
Deveren peered closer. It was a thin needle — or part of one. The same movement that had broken his lockpicking tool had also snapped this long sliver of what looked to be carved bone. Deveren remembered the small thing that had shot at his face, scratching it. Had he not broken the needle, it would have jabbed deeply into his fingers; had he not jerked back in time, it would have embedded itself in the soft flesh of his face.
Again, his hand went to his cheek, felt the already drying blood. Placing the box down, he turned and knelt, groping oh so carefully for the broken needle amid the rushes on the floor. He remembered where it had fallen and soon found it. Gingerly, he placed it in his palm and carried it to the open window for closer inspection.
It was a carved bone needle, all right. And there was something on it, something viscous and dark in the moon's silvery glow. Deveren brought it to his nose and sniffed. His eyes widened in horror.
Poison. Readily available from one of the translucent sea creatures that sometimes washed up on Braedon's shores, this poison was sent to the north, where soldiers augmented their weapons with it when fighting the Ghil. And it had scratched his cheek…
Deveren's legs gave way and he sat down hard. His heart pounded in fear. The poison would act quickly, within seconds. He swallowed, his mouth dry as sand, waiting for the pain to hit as he stared at the needle fragment.
It didn't come. After a long moment, Deveren realized he was probably the luckiest man in Braedon right now, perhaps in all of Byrn. He had been scratched with the broken end of the needle, not the poisoned end. He began to shake as the full meaning of this strange little trap sank in.
Only his thieves knew about the theft of the hairbrush. There was a traitor in his midst with murder on his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Know Love, when she comes to find you.
Pedric Dunsan knew a perfect night for romance when he saw one, and tonight was the most perfect such evening he had ever experienced.
Everything had gone beautifully. From the dinner of venison in pepper sauce, braised greens, and rose pudding, all complemented by lush Mharian wine, to the pleasant wandering hand-in-hand through her father's house, to the tears that dampened Lorinda's soft cheeks during the powerful first act of The Queen of All, there hadn't been an awkward pause or a misspoken word.
There were only two things that threatened to cast shadows on this most wonderful of nights as far as Pedric was concerned. The first was worry that Deveren might not achieve all three of his thefts, but that had been laid aside when Pedric witnessed the transaction over the hunting cup. If Deveren could manage that one, he could probably handle the rest.
The second was the tremendous, unlikely, indeed almost unthinkable act that Pedric was planning to commit during intermission. He kept turning over his decision in his mind, and coming up with plenty of reasons not to pursue such a dire plan of action.
But every time he decided against it, Lorinda would squeeze his hand, or laugh, or say something startlingly insightful, or simply look up at him with that serene half smile that seemed to be her constant expression and he would know, bone deep, that his plan was the right one.
During the intermission, alone with the adored and adorable Lorinda, with the exotic scents of night-blooming summer flowers surrounding them, Pedric Dunsan planned to propose.
Then, faster than he had imagined possible, the first act was over. The Queen's husband lay in a pool of blood, slain by the treachery of the Elf-King. She vowed a terrible revenge, and the lights were suddenly extinguished.
There was a hushed pause, then the sound of furious clapping. Pedric joined in, though his heart was pounding almost more loudly than the applause. The lights were lit, and the audience rose to their seats to mingle and discuss the play thus far.