Read Online King's Man and Thief by Christie Golden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christie Golden
Tags: Fantasy
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Travsdae, a scant five nights after the brutal murders of half the thieves of Braedon, the celebrants enjoying themselves in Deveren's lovely home paid the sound no mind. Deveren sipped honey wine from a gorgeous silver chalice and grinned to himself.
He enjoyed entertaining, and the pleasure never faded. There was little else, besides his beloved plays, that satisfied him as completely as hosting a gathering. The gentle, unobtrusive sounds of harp, flute, lute, and lyre; the happy buzz of good conversation; the glow on the guests' faces; the lavish spread of fine foods; the shrill punctuation of pleasant laughter—these intoxicated the handsome Lord Larath. People still talked about some of the parties he and Kastara had hosted, in their joyful, agonizingly brief time as husband and wife.
Deveren took another sip of the sweet fluid to hide the momentary flash of sorrow that flitted across his face. I still miss you so, my love, he thought. Regaining his composure, Deveren moved smoothly, inconspicuously, through the crowd of guests, making quiet notes as to who had attended and who was chatting with whom. His entire home was open and filled with light. Guests could wander anywhere and often did, from the dining hall where dinner had been held a few hours ago to the small armory just off the hall, from Deveren's beautifully decorated bedchamber to the tiny, romantic room atop the faux turret that adorned the house.
"Absolutely wonderful honey wine, Deveren!" came Pedric's voice at his ear. "Imported?" His host shook his head. "Only from down the street. When he's not pouring ale or serving terrible food, old Jankiss at the Cat and Dog makes this."
"Dear gods, you're joking!" Pedric stared with wonder at the goblet in his manicured hand. "You can get this at the Cat and Dog?"
Deveren laughed. "No, Jankiss makes it, but he doesn't serve it there. I pay him far better than any of his customers would."
"Sweet Love, I shall have to do what I can to undercut you and get some of this nectar myself," replied Pedric.
Deveren laughed, took another sip of the superb wine from lowly origins, and continued to peruse the room.
Damir, looking elegant in black hose and a short houppelande of royal blue, was deep in conversation with Lord Vandaris. Deveren smiled to himself. Though the celebration was allegedly being held in Damir's honor, Deveren's brother had eyes only for the man who could help him most—the white-haired, good-natured head of the Braedon Council. Deveren estimated that it wouldn't be long before Damir steered Vandaris into a less public corner for some more private political conversation. He was right; a moment later, Vandaris leaned over to his daughter to excuse himself.
"Good gods!" yelped Pedric, startling Deveren. "Who is that lovely creature?"
Deveren smiled to himself. "Won't Marrika be jealous?"
Pedric's handsome mouth contorted in a sneer of disgust. "The unlamented Marrika has been consigned to the pages of history, old friend. Now, tell me about this vision talking so affectionately to our dear councilman—" he stopped abruptly. "And don't tell me that she's his daughter!"
"Alas," said Deveren, mimicking Pedric's affected banter, "I must say that indeed the fair Lorinda is the child of our good Vandaris." His voice dropped, and there was no laughter in it now. "I'd steer clear of her if I were you. The last thing one of us wants to do is get messed up with a councilman's family—especially Vandaris."
Clearly, Pedric had not heard him. He was staring, enraptured, at Vandaris's only child. And Deveren had to admit, there was much at which to stare. The young woman was tall, and her lustrous hair fell free about her shoulders. Most of her sisters in high society wore their hair either bound or piled atop their heads, laced with jewelry. Lorinda did not wear much jewelry at all. but her gown, though simple, draped her like the finest ornament. Her face was likewise bare, free of the
He enjoyed entertaining, and the pleasure never faded. There was little else, besides his beloved plays, that satisfied him as completely as hosting a gathering. The gentle, unobtrusive sounds of harp, flute, lute, and lyre; the happy buzz of good conversation; the glow on the guests' faces; the lavish spread of fine foods; the shrill punctuation of pleasant laughter—these intoxicated the handsome Lord Larath. People still talked about some of the parties he and Kastara had hosted, in their joyful, agonizingly brief time as husband and wife.
Deveren took another sip of the sweet fluid to hide the momentary flash of sorrow that flitted across his face. I still miss you so, my love, he thought. Regaining his composure, Deveren moved smoothly, inconspicuously, through the crowd of guests, making quiet notes as to who had attended and who was chatting with whom. His entire home was open and filled with light. Guests could wander anywhere and often did, from the dining hall where dinner had been held a few hours ago to the small armory just off the hall, from Deveren's beautifully decorated bedchamber to the tiny, romantic room atop the faux turret that adorned the house.
"Absolutely wonderful honey wine, Deveren!" came Pedric's voice at his ear. "Imported?" His host shook his head. "Only from down the street. When he's not pouring ale or serving terrible food, old Jankiss at the Cat and Dog makes this."
"Dear gods, you're joking!" Pedric stared with wonder at the goblet in his manicured hand. "You can get this at the Cat and Dog?"
Deveren laughed. "No, Jankiss makes it, but he doesn't serve it there. I pay him far better than any of his customers would."
"Sweet Love, I shall have to do what I can to undercut you and get some of this nectar myself," replied Pedric.
Deveren laughed, took another sip of the superb wine from lowly origins, and continued to peruse the room.
Damir, looking elegant in black hose and a short houppelande of royal blue, was deep in conversation with Lord Vandaris. Deveren smiled to himself. Though the celebration was allegedly being held in Damir's honor, Deveren's brother had eyes only for the man who could help him most—the white-haired, good-natured head of the Braedon Council. Deveren estimated that it wouldn't be long before Damir steered Vandaris into a less public corner for some more private political conversation. He was right; a moment later, Vandaris leaned over to his daughter to excuse himself.
"Good gods!" yelped Pedric, startling Deveren. "Who is that lovely creature?"
Deveren smiled to himself. "Won't Marrika be jealous?"
Pedric's handsome mouth contorted in a sneer of disgust. "The unlamented Marrika has been consigned to the pages of history, old friend. Now, tell me about this vision talking so affectionately to our dear councilman—" he stopped abruptly. "And don't tell me that she's his daughter!"
"Alas," said Deveren, mimicking Pedric's affected banter, "I must say that indeed the fair Lorinda is the child of our good Vandaris." His voice dropped, and there was no laughter in it now. "I'd steer clear of her if I were you. The last thing one of us wants to do is get messed up with a councilman's family—especially Vandaris."
Clearly, Pedric had not heard him. He was staring, enraptured, at Vandaris's only child. And Deveren had to admit, there was much at which to stare. The young woman was tall, and her lustrous hair fell free about her shoulders. Most of her sisters in high society wore their hair either bound or piled atop their heads, laced with jewelry. Lorinda did not wear much jewelry at all. but her gown, though simple, draped her like the finest ornament. Her face was likewise bare, free of the
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