Damir sighed and rubbed his face for a long moment. "Deveren," he said gently, "it won't bring Kastara back."
The younger man flinched ever so slightly. Even now, seven years later, any mention of her name was painful to him. After Kastara's brutal murder, Deveren had gone slightly mad. The law officials could find nothing. Deveren became a constant fixture at the guard's offices, haranguing them daily, desperate for any sort of hope at which to grasp. Even Damir, with his vast network of spies and informants at hand, couldn't help.
When four months went by and they were still no closer to solving the crime, the law gradually began to cut back on the amount of time, money, and manpower it was pouring into the case. So it was that Deveren had initially turned to the other side of the law for justice, seeking out and joining the thieves of the city. He had hoped to uncover Kastara's killer, and exact retribution. "I know it won't bring her back," Deveren said after a moment. "I never did find her murderer, and I don't think I ever will. I'm reconciled to that."
Damir frowned, honestly puzzled. "Then why…"
"In my years of involvement with the thieves, I've learned something about them," Deveren continued. "Some who call themselves thieves are killers, but not all of them. While some look out only for themselves, others care about the group as a whole and as individuals. I've discovered that there's a sense of community, of, of- family in this group. Damir-among the people at the Whale's Tail was a little girl. Did you know that?"
Damir nodded. "I understand that the leader of the raid spared her life. His orders were to kill everyone in the building, but he hadn't expected to find children. When I heard, I was glad the man was wise enough not to follow those particular orders to the letter."
"So am I," said Deveren fervently. "She's a charming little thing — reminds me of your Talitha when she was that age. As leader, I have an enormous influence over how this group develops over the next few years."
A smile tugged at the diplomat's lips. "Ah, yes, the thieves of Braedon. They run a charity auction and orphanage-always donate to worthy causes. Did I mention the Fund for Wayward Kittens?"
The humor was misplaced, and a cloud came over Deveren's face. "A lot of people in that group are hungry. A lot of people are desperately poor. And you know as well as I do that if you really wanted to wipe out crime, you'd do it. One more 'purge' like the Whale's Tail and you'd have the rest of us. And speaking of crime," and Deveren's voice cracked like a whip, "I think the planned murder of seventeen people without benefit of trial isn't exactly legal!"
He rose and grabbed a bottle of wine that was on the sideboard. The bottle, an excellent vintage imported from Mhar, had been opened for a dinner earlier that week and the cork replaced. Deveren glanced about for something with which to extract the cork, found nothing immediately to hand, gripped the cork with his teeth and tugged. There was a slight pop. He poured himself a goblet of wine with a hand that trembled, and drained the glass.
Still angry, he placed the bottle on the table with a thump. Damir regarded it for a moment, arching a thin eyebrow. Then, to his brother's astonishment, he took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank directly from the neck.
Deveren stared, then broke into a loud, whooping laugh. The sight of formal, elegant Damir, who knew which eating implement went with which course and what side the wine was served on, guzzling like a sewer drunk was too ludicrous for any other reaction. Neatly, without spilling a drop, Damir finished his drink and set the bottle down on the table. He smiled slightly.
"I never liked for you to best me, not even in bad manners," he said drily.
They were friends again. "Here," said Deveren, the bright bubble of mirth still in his voice, "let me get you a glass."
For a time, the talk turned to topics lighter, safer, than theft or murder or espionage. The brothers talked of children, and crops, and new plays, and bardic festivals. They finished each other's sentences, laughed at each other's jokes, and drank in fraternal closeness. At last, Damir glanced at the candle, now burning low, and then outside at the lightening sky.
"I'm going to stay here awhile, Dev, if I may," he said.
"Aha, I knew there was another reason for your visit. I didn't think it was simply brotherly concern that had you rushing all the way out here."
"It was, truly," said Damir. "But I… well, I'll be frank with you. Your… hobby might be useful. And while I'm not overly happy at your recent promotion to leader, I confess that I could use your help in that capacity."
Deveren's eyebrows shot up.
"If you mean what you say about helping the thieves of your city gain a little self-respect, here's an excellent chance to begin. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but…" Damir sighed. "You know of the planned marriage between our Princess Cimarys and the young prince of Mhar, Castyll?"
"Good gods, they've been betrothed since they were in their cradles!" snorted Deveren. "Well, yes. But judging from the letters that have passed between them over the last year or so, it's developing into a love match."
"You read royal love letters?"
Damir looked slightly embarrassed. "It's one of my duties, yes. Anyway, Castyll sent a terse note a few days ago, terminating the betrothal."
Deveren shrugged. "Now that his father's dead, maybe he doesn't have to pretend he's fond of Cimarys anymore." He thought of the young Byrnian princess, barely fourteen but already graced with a womanly beauty. A smile tugged at his lips. "Send him a recent portrait of Cimmy. That should bring him to his senses."
Damir sighed. "Dev, could you be serious for once? Since King Shahil's death two months ago, a lot has happened in Mhar. A lot," he added, "that does not bode well for future relationships with Byrn."
Deveren was listening now. Mhar lay only a few leagues to the south, barely a day's travel by ship and only three days by horse. It was the nearest major city, closer even than the closest Byrnian city. War with Mhar would be a dangerous thing for Braedon.
"Such as?" he prompted. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. Had he indeed been the Fox that he was named for, his ears would have been pricked forward.
Pleased that he had gotten his brother's full attention, Damir launched into specifics. "First of all, they haven't had a coronation for young Castyll. He's fifteen, certainly of age to take the throne. Oh, they're calling him king, all right, but it's obvious that his power exists in name only. He and King Shahil went to Ilantha to stay at the traditional summer palace. Castyll ought to have returned to the capital city of Jarmair immediately upon the death of his father-but he's staying, finishing out the season, just as if nothing's wrong. That's hardly like the boy, from what I know of him. One of his father's counselors, a rather slimy fellow named Bhakir, is regent. It looks like he's the one in charge."
"What about the other advisors?" queried Deveren. Like Byrn, in Mhar the king's rule was tempered by a circle of "advisors" who wielded certain powers of their own. Damir smiled without humor.
"Such sad accidents," he said in a cool, polite tone that sent shivers up Deveren's spine. "Such dreadful illnesses. We've had trouble with Bhakir in the past, and now that he's in charge we expect more. This sudden end to an engagement that would bring the countries closer together would be suspicious at any time-and it's made even more so by the, uh, clearly genuine interest these two young people seem to have in each other."
"But Mhar would benefit by an alliance with us," said Deveren, confused. "Why — " "Mhar would," Damir clarified, "but Bhakir wouldn't."
Deveren nodded slowly. "So you've got a delayed coronation and a broken love match. What else?"
"Bhakir's been making changes in the top ranks of the military, both land and sea," continued Damir. "It would seem that many hitherto trusted generals and admirals were traitors. How lucky that Bhakir discovered their fiendish plots." If irony were a real substance, Damir's would have burned holes through the beautiful table.