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Either I’ve turned stupid, or life’s turned hard, he thought with a sigh.
The first thing Thom of Trebond noticed, returning late to his palace rooms, was that the door to his study was not closed. “I’ll turn the maids into fish if they left the door ajar!” he roared, slamming the door open.
The shadowy figure sitting by his hearth was thrown into relief by the glow from Thom. “I can see we’ll not be needin’ candles,” George drawled. “Close the door. There’s a good lad.”
Thom stared at his guest, then obeyed. As he slumped into a chair, he demanded, “What’re you doing here at this hour? Up to no good, I bet.”
“Why must you ask? Don’t you see all that happens in your tea cup in the mornin’?” George’s voice was bitter. He’d just come from telling Jon about the newest threat to his life—from betraying the Rogue, part of his mind insisted.
Thom tried to read George’s face, but the glow he cast wasn’t that strong. Not yet, he thought bitterly. “You haven’t done something...Rogue-ish, have you?”
George glared at him. “Don’t play me for an innocent, Thommy my lad. If I wanted to tell you, I would. It chances that I don’t.”
Thom shrugged. “As you wish.” He threw fire at the candles beside George; it was too much, consuming half of the fat wax sticks. He looked at the thief to see what he made of it, but only a slight crinkling around George’s eyes gave away that he’d noticed anything unusual.
“Say something.” Thom’s voice was tight. “Everyone else has! I heard Baird tell Jonathan perhaps the Mithrans let me go too soon.” When George didn’t reply, he yelled, “Say it, damn you!”
“You keep things chilly in here,” was the mild reply. “I know this old pile’s hard to warm, and it’s near midsummer and all—”
Thom laughed and could not stop. He buried his face in his hands, his thin body shaking. George rose, a worried look in his eyes, and put a hand on Thom’s shoulder.
“Don’t!” the sorcerer cried, but it was too late. George pulled back his hand after only a brief touch: Thom was far hotter than any mortal could be and still live.
“Black God’s belly, Thom! How long’ve you been like this?”
The younger man shook his head. “I have no idea.” He saw George shiver. “Go ahead—start a fire. It doesn’t make a difference. I’d do it myself, but—” He looked at the candles.
George knelt to use flint and steel to start a blaze. Watching it burn, he said cautiously, “I was struck by old Si-cham, when we visited you at the City.”
“No. No, I tell you! Have him come, and gloat—”
“He didn’t look like the gloatin’ kind to me, lad. He would’ve liked you, had you given him a chance. He was a bright young sprout himself, once.”
Bloodshot amethyst eyes stared at him. “D’you think this is some trouble I stumbled into, that my teaching-master can get me out of? A safety measure I didn’t take? Some bit of carelessness that can be mended by someone older and more experienced?”
“No. That kind of mistake’s known right off, and it’s often fatal. But Si-cham may’ve seen what’s wrong with you before—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Thom’s voice was flat as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “They were jealous of me in the City, all of those masters. There’s nothing they’d like better than to see me caught in a mistake.”
George considered his next remark carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Finally he decided to speak anyway. “What of Duke Baird, him that’s chief of the palace healers? Mayhap he—”
Thom giggled in earnest, his laugh hoarse with disuse. “Baird! What do I tell him? That—that—” He caught his breath. “I have a cold in my Gift?”
George smiled. “Does your friend know?”
They both knew who he meant. “If he does, he keeps it to himself. I can’t—won’t—ask him.” Softly Thom added, “I’m afraid to.” He looked at George his face white and pinched. “I believe he knows exactly what it is.” He jumped out of his chair. “Are you happy? Will you tell Myles he was right all along? Why not tell Jon, while you’re at it? You have no proof he’s whole again, no proof!” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Lad, calm down,” George said, keeping his alarm hidden. “You’re wearin’ me out.”
Thom laughed. “I don’t have any proof, either,” he went on tiredly. “But what else can I think, except that somehow he can do this? It’s that or...I have to believe the gods turned away from me. Because I thought and said it would be easy to make myself a god.”
“If there’s anyone you can ask—”
“No one. I made sure of that, didn’t I? This will pass. I’ll find a cure—something. I haven’t looked in the right places.”
George knew a dismissal when he heard it. He gathered up his cloak.
“Thank you.” It was a whisper.
“I did nothin’ to be thanked for this night,” George said harshly. “Not for you, not for anyone.”
“You listened, even though I’ve tried my best to discourage you. And you didn’t say you’ve warned me. If he is doing something.”
George nodded and left. Thom watched the fire for a moment, then rasped three words. A wave of sea water broke over the hearth, toppled the candles, and doused the fire before vanishing. He sat for the rest of the night, smelling scorched wood, ocean, and wet carpeting.
The thief, who was gone from Thom’s thoughts when the door closed, went to his most recent hideout. At dawn George’s messenger rode north to the City of the Gods with George’s urgent letter to Si-cham, First Master of the Order of Mithros.
Several nights after
George had passed on his information, Jonathan and the Lord Provost laid their plans to catch the conspirators. They met in a room near the servants’ quarters. By Jonathan’s command, Roger was also present. “You are in charge, my lord,” Jon told the Provost when his cousin arrived. “Give us your instructions.”
The Provost opened a hidden panel that led to the maze of secret passages and servants’ corridors in this section of the palace. “We’ll be able to see and hear everything. My boys were able to fix the room, thanks to all this advance warnin’. But neither of you make a sound, or you’ll blow the game.” The old man was common-born and it showed in his speech. “If they say what it’s claimed they will, I’ll signal the arrest.”
“I cannot see why my presence is necessary,” Roger commented. He looked bored.
Jonathan glanced at him and snapped, “Call it my whim, Roger.”
“Since when does the King-to-be take part in spying, even on a whim?” Roger’s melodic voice was filled with sarcasm.
“We’re spyin’ on would-be regicides,” the Provost said dryly. “King-killers.”
“A plot against my cousin? What folly!” Roger’s voice sharpened. “You suspect me, Jonathan?”
“You haven’t been implicated,” was the cool reply.
“I thought I was to be forgiven my...earlier errors,” said Roger bitterly.
“Do your friends feel the same way?” Jon demanded. “Perhaps you should ask them. If you don’t know the answer already!”
“Enough!” the Provost ordered. “Let’s get movin’.”
They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost’s men. Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King’s Own.
