The room to his immediate left was his library. It was dark, and far enough back from the lighted window so that even if he made sounds, he wouldn't be heard. But Deveren intended to make no noise. He crouched beneath the wooden sill and reached his hand up, pressing two fingers against the window. Deveren concentrated on stilling his racing thoughts, and visualized the window unlocking. He did not have to raise his head to know that his meager hand magic hadn't worked. Had he been able to lay even a single finger on the lock itself, he could have managed it. As it was, the additional barrier of the glass, frail as it was, was an obstacle that prevented him from opening the window.
He dropped down again and pressed his back flat against the stone. Sometimes, Deveren thought with a hint of disgust, plain old burglary was more efficient than magic. He fumbled in his pouch. Deveren had a bad habit of never emptying his pouch from night to night or theft to theft. Had he not already been a thief, he would, contrary to what he had told the guards, have been a prime candidate for robbery; the deceptively simple pouch he wore at his side was crammed full of valuables.
Now his bad habit had become an unexpected blessing. Fumbling blindly in the pouch, his questing fingers found a ring whose stone was not embedded in its golden circle but rather jutted up proudly. He closed his eyes in relief. Stones set in such a manner, Deveren knew, were most usually diamonds. He pulled the ring out, then turned to the window.
Working by touch, he pressed back the soft gold prongs that held the gem in place and removed it. Cupping the diamond in his palm, he felt for its sharpest edge. He held the ring in his left hand and, holding the small jewel carefully between his right thumb and forefinger, reinserted the diamond into its setting so that the sharp edge faced out. Then he pressed closed the golden prongs. Grasping the ring, Deveren cut a small hole in the glass, just large enough to put his two fingers through. He pushed gently, and the small circle of cut glass dropped soundlessly to the rushes beneath.
Deveren bent forward and placed his ear to the hole, listening. Silence. He smiled, his confidence returning. If he, a skilled thief, couldn't even break into his own house without being detected, he had no right to be leader. He reached in, unlocked the window in a totally nonmagical manner, and eased it open.
He was halfway inside the room when the voice nearly stopped his heart.
"If only our mother were here to see this."
Deveren knew that voice. Relief flooded him, replaced almost immediately by a combination of delight and irritation.
"Damn you, Damir," he growled, grinning, as he swung his other leg into the room, "I have cats that are noisier than you!"
Damir had already lit a candle — the light that had “warned” Deveren about possible “assassins”-and by its flickering light Deveren saw that his older brother was laughing at the trick he'd played. The two embraced with real warmth, although Deveren did land a good-natured punch to Damir's thin arm.
There was little about their appearances to alert the casual stranger that there was so intimate a bond between the two men. Deveren, boyish and well built, stood a good four inches taller than his "big" brother. His hair was a light brown, only slightly touched with gray, while Damir's thinning locks were a deep, rich mink color. Damir was slight and elegant; Deveren, slender, but athletic. Only their hands, with their long, thin fingers, and their eyes, a bright, knowing hazel, were the same. That, and their quick minds.
"Do you know how much a pane of glass costs?" said Deveren.
"I'll pay for it," Damir offered. "It's worth every penny just to have watched you sneaking about like that. You're slipping, Dev. If I had been waiting to kill you, I'd hardly have lit a candle to announce my presence."
Deveren was so embarrassed he actually blushed. Of course. Any other night, he would have realized that at once. But so soon after the massacre, he was understandably on edge.
"Pray tell, Ambassador Larath, what brings you to the fair city of Braedon?" he asked Damir, changing the subject as he led his brother out from the library into the dining area. "I'd heard that King Emrys wasn't doing so well, and thought you wouldn't be too far from his side. Come on, let's get something to eat. Sudden fear followed by intense pleasure always makes me hungry."
He reached for a bowl of fruit on the table in the dining room, seizing a fragrant peach and biting into it. Deveren's dining room would more appropriately be called a hall. The table at which he plopped himself so casually would easily sit twenty-four, and it stretched grandly into the superbly decorated room. Despite the fine old furniture, the lovely statues of elf-maidens and noble warriors, and the high, vaulted ceiling, the place, like its owner, was friendly rather than overwhelming. Damir, used to even more sumptuous surroundings than his brother's abode, followed his sibling's relaxed example. He eased into a plush chair, studied the bowl of fruit, and helped himself to a bunch of grapes.
"Actually," Damir began slowly, fingering the fruit rather than plucking it, "you bring me here."
Deveren nearly choked on his peach. "Me?" he mumbled. "Sweet Health, don't tell me your spies know about the election already!" Damir's position was, officially, that of an ambassador. Deveren knew that his brother's actual role in the function of government was far more important and far more dangerous. Damir had at his command a vast network of spies-though he liked to use the term "information gatherers."
Damir arched a thin, aristocratic eyebrow. "Election? Why, no. You'll have to tell me all about it later. No, I came to make sure that you were… all right." His eyes, bright as a sparrow's, met his brother's evenly.
All traces of mirth and welcome vanished from Deveren's countenance. He was silent for a long, tense moment, and when he at last spoke his voice was like ice.
"If you ordered that raid on the Whale's Tail Desdae night," he said slowly, "then you are not welcome in my home."
"Of course not, Dev!" The undisguised hurt and anger in Damir's normally modulated voice was proof enough for Deveren, and his posture relaxed. "You know I have no say in matters of that nature."
"But you knew it was going to happen, didn't you?"
His thin face still tense, Damir nodded. Deveren swore.
"I have no control over… that branch of the government," Damir continued. "I didn't even know who was… who had survived and who hadn't. I wanted to send you a mind-warning, but-" "Braedon is too far away," Deveren finished his brother's sentence. He knew the limits of Damir's mind magic. Damir nodded, his eyes searching Deveren's.
"Gods, Dev, I couldn't even sense if you were still alive! I left home the minute I knew what they were planning. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered!"
Deveren looked down at his reflection in the highly polished wood of the table. "Sorry. But Damir-I lost friends that night."
The older man sighed and popped a grape into his mouth. "I realize that," he said in a calmer voice, after he had swallowed. "You wouldn't have if you'd stayed away from that group as I advised you to."
Deveren suddenly seemed to develop a great interest in finishing his peach and fell silent. Damir narrowed his eyes. Deveren could practically see wheels turning in his brother's head as realization dawned on Damir's face.
"Election," he said softly. "Please, Dev, tell me that what I'm thinking is wrong. Tell me you've been voted head of the local garden appreciation guild, or something like that."
"Sorry." He wasn't.