Circle of Thieves: Legends of Dimmingwood (13 page)

Chapter
Fourteen

My footsteps rang across the floor as I paced the narrow
waiting room we had been ushered into. A deep numbness had settled over me
since that scene at the East Bridge, so that there was no question of working
up my courage. I felt nothing, least of all fear. My only concern was whether
I’d be granted the opportunity to carry out my task.

Ignorant of my plans, Fleet leaned against the wood paneled
wall, his fingers twisting idly at the gaudy rings above his knuckles. Although
he didn’t outwardly betray his concern, I sensed it and wondered if he was
always this unsettled when preparing to report to the Praetor or if he somehow
suspected what I had in mind. I would keep a wary eye on him. I couldn’t have
him interfering with my plans.

Something else I kept an eye on was the iron-studded door at
the end of the room. At every moment, I half expected it to fly open to admit a
flood of Fists who would come pouring over us like a human avalanche. I knew
there were a number of them keeping watch outside the door already, and I’d
seen more posted at intervals along the hall.

Raking a hand through my mussed hair, I told myself we’d
been a pair of fools to come here. We were making it so easy for them. This
entire business smelled of a trap. Why hadn’t I realized that before? But I
knew why. It was because I was so full of zeal for the task ahead; I hadn’t
stopped to think.

I paced faster. Why had I let them take my knives when we
entered the Praetor’s keep? My bow still rode comfortably at my back, but it
was of no use when I’d been forced to part with my arrows. All I had left was a
single trick up my sleeve—or rather, down my boot. I prayed it was enough.

I was shaken out of my thoughts when the big door swung
inward, admitting a burly man in the attire of a Fist with two more armed
soldiers at his back. I tensed but no attack came. There was a pause of about
three seconds as the man in front and I eyed one another with controlled
animosity. Obviously he knew who I was and resented whatever orders restrained
him from killing me.

My hand moved of its own accord to my sleeves but faltered
as I remembered my missing knives. Even if I’d been armed, I couldn’t afford to
let an impulsive act cost me my chance at the Praetor.

Observing my empty motion, the Fist smirked, but the satisfaction
quickly disappeared from his eyes as he announced, “His lordship will see you
now.”

I grinned insolently, despite our precarious situation.
“Come Fleet. His Greatness deigns to see his humble vassals after only a few
hours’ wait.”

“His lordship is a busy man,” the Fist said coolly, looking
at a spot somewhere above my shoulder. “He has little time for granting
audiences to lice-infested street curs and filthy woods rabble.”

“It was he who requested this meeting,” I pointed out, but the
Fist seemed not to hear. Turning on his heel, he instructed us to follow him
out of the room.

We fell into step behind him, the other two Fists closing in
at our sides, so that we were effectively boxed in as we started down the wide
outer corridor. There was no direction to run except back the way we came, and
a surreptitious peek over my shoulder showed even that route led to no escape.
Too many of the Praetor’s personal guard lined the corridors.

I mentally ran over the plan again, readying myself for the
moment of confrontation. I didn’t think I’d left any loose ends.  The
apothecary on Smith Street hadn’t asked what I intended to do with the poison I
purchased. I’d made certain Fleet wasn’t looking when I’d dipped my dagger into
the lethal mixture before slipping it into my boot with a strip of sacking
wrapped around the blade to protect me from a possible scrape of the razor
edged steel.

I felt guilty about dragging the unsuspecting Fleet into my
deception. I had accepted from the moment the plan entered my mind that I
wouldn’t survive this hour. I considered my life a small price to pay for
vengeance, but it would be a shame if my friend was taken down with me for an
act in which he had no part. But when I thought of Brig and my parents and
countless other deaths I could lay at the Praetor’s door, my resolve stiffened.

I studied our surroundings as we passed, committing the
off-branching corridors to memory, noting which open doorways were guarded by
Fists and which looked like they might lead to possible escape routes. Escape
was unlikely, but if we did get the chance to run when this was over, for
Fleet’s sake, we would take it.

The inside of the Praetor’s keep was not as grand as I had
always imagined it would be. The rooms we passed were furnished with more
wealth and comfort than anything I’d ever seen in my limited experience of fine
surroundings. But there was little in the way of decoration here. Surveying the
spartan furnishings and colorless tapestries on the walls, all of which
depicted gory battle scenes, I was reminded that it had been years since the
Praetor’s lady had been alive and in residence. This keep was less a home than
a fortress and a museum to glory days past.

We came upon a set of wide iron-banded doors engraved with
the image of a rearing bear. A Fist drew open the doors and we entered a large
antechamber. It was a long room with a high vaulted ceiling crisscrossed with
thick beams and supported by timber braces from floor to ceiling. A fireplace
large enough for a man to walk into blazed at one end of the room, so that
despite the cold outdoors, the air within was stifling. Immediately, sweat
beaded across my forehead.

I noted in a glance that the room was windowless and the
doors through which we had entered were the only way in or out. But it would
have made little difference if there had been a dozen exits in the room,
because the walls were lined with armed guards.

I ignored the soldiers, focusing instead on the purpose of
my coming.

His powerful presence hit me like a hammer blow to the face,
and I recognized it as the same presence that had invaded my mind long ago on
the streets of Selbius. But this time I had the advantage, because I was aware
of him, and he had not yet noticed me. I’d been prepared for this, had entered the
room with magical barriers already constructed and waiting, and I slammed them
into place now, sealing them tightly enough to hold out even the most
overwhelming of senses and emotions.

It was like dropping a snuffer over a candle flame, so
suddenly did that other presence flicker out in my mind. I couldn’t even sense
Fleet or any of the others around me. I gritted my teeth and endured the wave
of panic brought on by the abrupt emptiness. I was conscious of the weight of
the bow on my back, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Even in this state I still
felt its voiceless presence huddled in the back of my mind.

With an effort, I redirected my attention to the Praetor. He
sat on a high backed throne-like chair on a raised dais at the far end of the
hall. A handful of well-dressed men I assumed were his advisors clustered
around him, but I spared little attention for them.

The approach to the dais was a long one, the burly Fist
leading the way, and I had ample opportunity to observe my enemy. The Praetor
Tarius looked different than on the last occasion I had seen him during his
procession through the streets of the city. He had exchanged his armor for a
dark tunic with a wide-sleeved robe of scarlet velvet falling in loose folds to
the floor. The effect was majestic. I felt as if I were approaching a king
rather than a mere provincial lord and felt sure that was the feeling he
intended to cultivate in all who waited on him.

Despite the grandeur of his attire, his restless shifting in
his seat and the listless way he flicked at the sleeves of his robes when they
fell over his wrists hinted the man had little patience for formal audiences
and the finer trappings of his status. His dark eyes sharpened when they fell
on our party and he straightened. I was aware of his singling me out with
interest after a more cursory glance over Fleet and our accompanying escort.

I studied him as openly as did he us, noticing the streaks
of gray at his temples and the light creases around his eyes and mouth. My gaze
fell to the tanned strong looking hands resting atop the polished arms of his
chair, and I could easily imagine them still wielding a sword alongside his
Iron Fists. My examination wasn’t idle or even born of a desire to know my
enemy, to look into the face of the man I had come to kill. I was searching for
something, some outward physical sign to confirm the suspicions I had once
voiced to Hadrian. I had long suspected the Praetor of being a mage, and
nothing I saw now lessened that belief.

The Fist who was head of our escort greeted his lord with a
bow and a hand to his sword hilt, before shoving Fleet and I to our knees
before the dais. I could have resisted, but the defiant gesture didn’t seem
worth the blade in the gut it would likely cost me. I would bide my time.

“My lord,” the Fist was saying, “this is the peasant rabble
whose presence you commanded.”

The Praetor leaned forward to study me, his brows drawing
forward as if he examined a living fish that had somehow flopped its way onto
his dining table. I forgot to breathe. Here was the man who had all but wielded
the sword that had killed my parents eleven years ago. Here was the man who,
either by direct order or carelessness, had caused Brig to be killed most
brutally. I was so close I could almost stretch out a hand and touch him. I
could
touch him if I lunged forward. All I’d have to do was whip out my poisoned
dagger, scramble to my feet and up the few steps, somehow avoiding the
descending blades of his guards.

But it wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. I needed to be closer
or my brave effort would only end on the tip of a Fist’s blade.

The Praetor’s face cracked into a sudden grimace, which it
took me a moment to realize must be what passed for him as a smile.

He said, “So this is the great Hound, whose fame and daring
feats are sung of in the streets? I’m disappointed. I ask for a great hero and
am handed a mere child.”

No one had called me a child since I had gone up against the
Fists for Brig. Hearing the insult from him of all men was particularly
grating, and I couldn’t hold my tongue.

“This child has outwitted your best men on more than one
occasion,” I pointed out. “And I wouldn’t be before you now had I not come of
my own will.”

At my insolence, the Fist at my side moved as if to strike
me, but the Praetor lifted a careless hand, motioning him to hold back.

“So. The brat has courage and at least the wits to defend
herself,” he said to the room at large. “Perhaps we did not do so badly after
all. I may indeed find a use for her.”

A use? For what purpose
had
he summoned me? To enter
his employ? That made no sense. If he knew so much about me he must also be
aware I was a woods thief of Rideon’s band. He wouldn’t want any more
association with me than the time it took to have my neck stretched.

Mimicking his method of speaking over my head, I commented
to the tapestry on the wall behind him, “I have no interest in being of use to
the Praetor. I wouldn’t dirty my hands or my conscience by touching a copper
from his purse.”

He laughed, an unpleasant hollow sound, but at least he
finally spoke to me directly. “These are proud words from one who runs with
outlaws. But I suppose your thieving days are over, and you’ve since reformed
yourself. That’s a story I hear often from this chair, a feeble excuse put
forth by the pathetic wretches bowing before me. They kneel right where you do
and beg for mercy.”

I met his challenge with a defiant glare. “You’ll never see
me do that.”

He searched my face. Did I imagine it or was there a glimmer
of newfound respect in his eyes?

“That’s as well,” he said. “I’ve no interest in hiring a
sniveling coward. If I thought you lacked the intelligence or the courage for
the task at hand, I’d have you marched immediately to the market district and
strung up alongside your friends. I may yet do so.”

“No!”

I started at the unexpected protest, and the Praetor whipped
his head around to glare at the offender, one of a group of guards and advisors
standing behind him.

Looking abashed, the speaker quickly rephrased his protest.
“Forgive me, my lord, but surely nothing could be gained by killing one we have
gone to such lengths to procure. The girl is stubborn and sometimes arrogant,
but I’m sure once she is made to understand the situation, you’ll find her
cooperative and most useful. She is very capable at what she does.”

The stranger turned to me, his face at once defiant and
vaguely imploring, and to my surprise I found myself looking into a pair of
familiar violet eyes. I scanned Terrac up and down, unbelievingly. The mental
barrier I’d locked into place on entering the room must have prevented my
sensing his presence, but with the physical change in him I hardly recognized
him even now. A broadsword sheathed at his side, he wore the shining dark plate
of the Praetor’s guard, a scarlet cape trailing down his back, and his hair had
lengthened sufficiently to be scraped back into a soldier’s queue. Taller and
broader than the last time I had seen him, he was more a man now than a boy. I
was startled to realize for the first time that he had the sort of features
that some would call attractive. They might have been called so by me if they
had belonged to anyone but Terrac.

I wasn’t sure if it was the soldier’s outfit he disguised
himself in or some intuitive sense that told me he was no longer the
weak-willed nervous priest boy I’d once known. If there had been a glimmer of
anxiety in his eyes as he defended me, his face was now carefully devoid of
expression.

The Praetor was speaking. “Yes, Under-Lieutenant, I remember
your report of the girl. More importantly, I’m mindful of other reports.”