Without warning, the doorknob slipped out of Fyora's hand and the frame rattled as the door slammed shut. She jumped away from it with a squeal of fright and turned to stare at him.

Then she screamed.

"Oh, for the gods' sake!" Wrayan cursed as he realised the small amount of magic he had drawn to slam the door was still enough to make his eyes darken. He crossed the room in three strides and pushed her up against the door with his hand over her mouth, stifling her screams. Wrayan wasn't sure what the rest of the residents of the Pickpocket's Retreat would make of the racket coming from his room. He was hoping, given the clientele who frequented the place, that most of the other guests would simply turn a deaf ear to the noise.

"Stop it!" he ordered impatiently, holding her against the door by force. Fyora's eyes were wide with fear. "I'm not going to hurt you!"

After a moment, he felt her relax and he took his hand from her mouth. She stared at him in a wordless mixture of awe and terror. Wrayan let go of the power and knew his eyes were slowly returning to their normal colour. He cursed his own stupidity. Normally, he wasn't nearly so careless.

"I'm sorry," he said, as gently as he could. He really liked Fyora. She didn't deserve to be tossed aside like a cast-off cloak. He decided to let her down as gently as he could. It was a wise decision for more than the obvious reason. Fyora worked here in the Pickpocket's Retreat, where Wrayan did much of his business and ate most of his meals. She had plenty of opportunity to get back at him if she decided he'd broken her heart. "I didn't mean to frighten you like that. But I don't deserve to have you chucking things at me, either. I'm not trying to get rid of you. I really do have to attend the palace for lunch. I honour the God of Thieves, not Liars. And if you don't believe me, you can ask him yourself."

"But how did you . . ."

"I used to be an apprentice at the Sorcerers' Collective." He smiled, hoping to reassure her. She was looking at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted horns. "Don't you listen to all the gossip about me?"

She searched his face, still trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or perhaps preparing her for another round of torment. "I . . . I thought it was just some story you spread about to make yourself sound mysterious."

He smiled at her reassuringly. "Well, now you know."

"But your eyes . . . what are you, Wrayan?"

He smiled cryptically. "Late, if I don't get dressed."

He kissed her lightly and then let her go and turned to the chest at the foot of his bed, thinking this was an occasion for more formal attire than he usually wore. Princess Marla probably wouldn't care if he turned up wearing a sack, but Orleon was a stickler for rules of protocol. Still leaning against the door, Fyora watched him cautiously as he laid out his clothes.

"You really are going to the palace," she said, when she saw the finery he dragged up from the bottom of the trunk.

"I thought we'd established that," he remarked without looking at her. His boots were a little scuffed, but they would have to do. There was no time to get them polished to a parade-ground gleam.

Lunch at the palace waited on no man. It would take him a good hour to get to the palace as it was, even if he rode, given the midday bustle of the city.

Fyora pushed off the door and came to sit on the bed beside him as he began to pull on his trousers. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For doubting you."

"You don't have to apologise," he assured her. "I suppose it is a little strange to think someone like me would get invited to the palace."

"Do you really know the princess?"

"Yes."

"Have you met her children?"

"Of course."

"I've seen them. Just from a distance, mind you. At the races last spring. They were with Lord Damaran and Lord Bearbow in the stands."

"I know. I saw them there, too."

"He's a good-looking boy."

"Who?"

"The High Prince's heir."

"Damin?" Wrayan pulled on his shirt and stood up so he could tuck it in. "I hadn't noticed."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's he really like?" The question sounded more like a test than asking for his opinion.

Wrayan shrugged. "He's smart enough, I suppose. And he can fight like a Raider. But then, anyone who's had Geri Almodavar teaching them how to fight since before they could walk ought to be good. He can be a bit precocious at times, but he seems to be a good lad at heart."

Fyora shook her head in wonder. "You really do know the royal family, don't you?"

He smiled. It took a while for things to sink in with Fyora sometimes. "Yes, Fee. I really do know them."

"Do you think . . .," she began hesitantly. "Well, I mean, do you think there might come a time . .

. you know . . . when you could introduce me?"

Wrayan had to forcibly stop himself from laughing aloud at the thought of presenting Fyora to Princess Marla. Fortunately, he was pulling on his boots, so Fyora didn't see the expression on his face.

"I don't think so, Fee."

"Oh." She sounded so disappointed, Wrayan almost felt sorry for her.

"Tell you what, though," he offered, to ease her disappointment, as he stamped his feet into his riding boots. "I know a Harshini lord who'd love to meet you."

She sighed impatiently. "The Harshini are all gone, Wrayan. Everyone knows that."

"I know one that's still about," he said, reaching for his jacket. It was dark blue, embroidered with silver knot-work on the cuffs, and the high collar was inlaid with velvet. The only place he'd be seen dead wearing it was at the palace. Strutting about in such finery around the Beggars' Quarter was asking for trouble.

Fyora rolled her eyes at him sceptically. "You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?"

"I'm serious! He pops in here every now and then to visit me. Who do you think taught me that trick with the door, Fee?"

She thought about that for a moment and then a slow smile crept over her face. "A real Harshini lord?"

"He's a real Harshini lord. And I promise the next time he visits Krakandar, I'll arrange for you to meet him."

She considered his offer for a time and then nodded. "You really promise?"

"On my honour as a thief."

His oath was good enough for her. She picked up her other shoe from the bed, stood up, reached up on her toes and kissed him soundly and then let herself out of the room, her broken heart apparently mended, her fears allayed, by the prospect of meeting a real Harshini lord.

"Brak is gonna kill me," Wrayan muttered to himself as he watched her leave.

Still, it was highly unlikely that he'd ever have to keep that promise. It was five years since he'd seen Brakandaran the Halfbreed and he thought it might be another ten before the Halfbreed felt the need to wander through Krakandar again.

Chapter 20.

Agroom hurried out to take Wrayan's horse as he dismounted in the broad paved plaza in front of Krakandar Palace. It was a warm day, although a little cloudy. A crisp breeze sent scudding shadows over the plaza, making the pennons on the palace roof snap loudly. Not surprisingly, Princess Marla's personal pennon stood out in the stiff breeze from the centre pole, indicating she was in residence. He'd only put one foot on the bottom step before Orleon appeared on the landing, as if by magic, with a faintly disapproving sneer.

"Master Lightfinger."

"Orleon, my old friend!" Wrayan replied cheerfully. "You're looking well."

The chief steward frowned. "As are you, Master Lightfinger. Business must be thriving in the seedy underworld of the criminal element."

"Never been better," Wrayan agreed, climbing the steps until he was face to face with the old man. "Nice pendant, by the way," he teased, eyeing the steward's heavy silver chain with its jewelled kraken pendant that was his proud badge of office. "If you're ever in need of a little extra cash, come and see me. I could fence that for quite a bit."

Orleon was not amused. The old man disapproved mightily of Wrayan's friendship with Princess Marla, but was forced to tolerate it for her sake. "I must inform you, sir, that on hearing you were invited to lunch today, I arranged a full inventory of the palace valuables. I'll know if anything goes missing."

"I promise to be on my best behaviour then."

"I'm serious, Master Lightfinger."

"I know you are, Orleon. That's what makes you so much fun."

"Wrayan!"

The thief turned in the direction of the shout before the chief steward could respond. Damin and Starros burst out of the palace doors and raced to the head of the steps to greet him. Wrayan was stunned by how much the boys had grown in the year since he'd seen them last, although nothing much else seemed changed about them.

"Hello, Damin. Starros."

"Is he causing trouble already, Orleon?" Damin asked with a grin.

The old man muttered something rude under his breath and then bowed slightly in Damin's direction. "Perhaps you and Starros would prefer to escort Master Lightfinger to lunch, your highness?"

"We'd be happy to," the young prince replied.

"Then I will leave you in the care of the children, Master Lightfinger," Orleon told him, and turned on his heel. He strode back into the palace, his back stiff.

"What did you say to make Orleon so mad?" Starros asked, falling in beside them as they followed the chief steward into the palace. Wrayan liked Starros. The fosterling had the quick wit of a truly intelligent mind and the sort of nature that seemed capable of handling any crisis. Pity he's destined for a life in the Palace Guard, Wrayan mused. Starros would have made an excellent thief.

"How do you know Orleon is mad at me?"

Starros smiled. "He only ever calls Damin 'your highness' when he's cranky about something."

"I offered to pawn his pendant for him."

Damin laughed delightedly. "I wish you'd visit more often, Wrayan. If only for the effect you have on Orleon."

"According to Orleon, I shouldn't be visiting at all," Wrayan replied as they stepped into the cool dimness of the main foyer. "How's your mother?"

"Same as always." Damin shrugged as they crossed the polished granite tiles and headed up the grand staircase to the dining room on the second floor. "She brought Luciena Mariner back with her this time. She's going to be officially adopted into the family."

"Is she now?"

The news interested Wrayan greatly. He understood why the princess had married Ruxton Tirstone. Wrayan once joked to Marla that he would have married Ruxton himself to get access to the vast intelligence network the spice trader owned. But on many an occasion he'd wondered why Marla had married a man so far beneath her as Jarvan Mariner. And why she'd done nothing about his baseborn daughter all these years. Apparently, she'd simply been biding her time. The daughter would be a marriageable age by now, he guessed. As usual, Marla had her eye on the long-term future.

"I'm going to Izcomdar at the end of summer," Damin announced, as they reached the head of the stairs and turned left along the carpeted hall. Tall paintings of generations of Krakenshield Warlords loomed over them as they walked, as if they were running a gauntlet haunted by the dead. Wrayan hated this hallway and was sure the painting hanging over the door to the library followed him with his eyes each time he came here.

"Is that where you're being fostered?" Wrayan asked, forcing himself to ignore the dead eyes of the portraits. I should send someone in here to steal them. Then I wouldn't have to look at them whenever I come to visit. "That's not so far away."

It was common practice among the highborn to foster their children in another province between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, and Wrayan knew how politically fraught the decision about Damin's fosterage must have been for Princess Marla. He'd expected her to send him somewhere safe, among people she trusted, like Elasapine or Sunrise. Izcomdar, the province that bordered Krakandar to the south, seemed an odd choice.

"I know. Old Rogan's a bit of a bore, too. And nothing exciting ever happens there."

"Damin was hoping they'd send him to Sunrise, so he could have a chance at killing some Fardohnyans," Starros explained.

"I wish! The worst thing I'm likely to confront in Izcomdar is horse thieves."

Wrayan smiled at the young prince's obvious disappointment. "Maybe they'll be really scary horse thieves, Damin."

"Fat chance," the boy grumbled. Then he brightened and added, "On the other hand, the reason he is plagued by horse thieves is that old Rogan breeds some of the best stock in Hythria. Did you know he has a strain of sorcerer-bred horses that's still as pure as it was when the Harshini were around?"

In the blink of an eye, the young prince's disappointment had turned to excitement. Damin was like that. He was the sort of person who managed to find something positive in any situation. Wrayan hoped the trait followed him in adulthood.

"What about you, Starros?" Wrayan asked. "Now that Damin's heading off, does that mean you'll officially be joining the Raiders?"

"Princess Marla thinks I need more education. I'm staying in the palace for the time being."

Which means she has you tagged for bigger and better things, my lad, than life as a simple Raider. It didn't really surprise him. Marla would never let an asset like Starros go to waste in the Palace Guard.

"Well, if you ever get bored, come pay me a visit. I'd be happy to show you the other side of life."

Starros seemed amused. "You mean if I ever get sick of living in the lap of luxury, having my every wish catered for, my own court'esa, and anything else I want provided for me?"

"I didn't say it was necessarily a good idea, Starros," Wrayan laughed.

They reached the dining room doors, which two slaves opened for them as they approached.

Princess Marla was already in the room; she was dressed in a simple green gown, standing near the window talking to an unfamiliar, dark-haired young woman whom Wrayan guessed must be Luciena Mariner.

The princess turned as they entered, her face breaking into a smile of genuine pleasure.

"Wrayan!"