Wrayan smiled. "Aha! So that's it! Business is a bit slow at the moment, eh, Divine One? What with everyone dropping dead from the plague and all."

Dacendaran assumed an air of contrived innocence. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Then he added in a rather peeved tone, "Anyway, even if that was the reason nobody's stealing much at the moment, what's your excuse? There's no plague here in Krakandar."

"We've been rather busy keeping it that way," Wrayan informed him. "I'm sorry that doesn't quite fit with your plans for world domination, Divine One."

The God of Thieves was not amused. "You're supposed to be the greatest thief in all of Hythria, Wrayan. That's what you promised me."

"And most of the time I am, Divine One. What's more, I rule all your other worshippers in Krakandar with an iron fist and keep them loyal to you and only you. But I'm not going to be much good to you if I die from the plague. So, just accept that things are going to be a little slow until this disease has run its course. Better yet," he added as an afterthought, "why not speak to whichever one of your brother or sister gods is responsible for this mess and get them to back off. Then we can all go back to business as usual."

Dacendaran thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. "All right," he said, and abruptly vanished.

Wrayan stared at the suddenly empty seat, shaking his head.

"Isn't talking to yourself the first sign of delirium?"

Startled for the second time in almost as many minutes, Wrayan looked up to find Starros and Damin Wolfblade, the young Prince of Krakandar himself, standing beside his table, without the usual contingent of bodyguards that seemed to follow the young man around. Maybe with the city sealed against outsiders, Almodavar was satisfied the danger to his prince was scant enough to risk dispensing with them for a while. And Damin would be making the most of this unexpected freedom, Wrayan guessed, which was probably why he was here in the Pickpocket's Retreat. Wrayan glanced past the two young men to discover there were already murmurs racing through the tavern about the prince's presence in the Beggars' Quarter. It wouldn't be long before the place was packed to the rafters, once word got out that Damin was here.

And then he wondered how much the young men had heard of his conversation with Dace.

"I was just asking Dacendaran to do something about ridding us of this damn plague," he explained with a smile, figuring the truth was probably more unbelievable than any story he could invent. "Won't you join me?"

The two young men slid into the booth, occupying the seat so recently vacated by the God of Thieves. Fyora had spotted them and was already hurrying over with fresh tankards of ale. "So tell me, to what do we owe this great honour, your highness?" he asked, as Fee arrived at the table. "It's not often we catch you down here slumming it in the Beggars' Quarter with us poor peasants."

"Rats," Damin explained. "Rats, rats and more rats. My uncle thinks we're crazy, but it seems to be working so far."

"We've been down at the glassworks checking on the disposal of the carcasses," Starros added.

"And the idea of coming all this way without paying a visit to the lovely Fyora was simply unthinkable," Damin declared, with a winning smile at the court'esa. She blushed furiously and looked about ready to faint with happiness that Damin had remembered her name.

Wrayan shook his head at her foolishness. "There's people waiting to be served, Fee."

Forcing her attention away from the prince, whose mere presence seemed to have turned her into a puddle on the floor, Fee stared at Wrayan blankly. "What?"

"You have other customers," the thief reminded her, pointing at the bar where the inevitable crowd was starting to gather, every man and woman there trying to give the impression they hadn't noticed who was sitting in the corner booth with Wrayan Lightfinger.

Fyora glanced over her shoulder and sighed heavily, before turning back to Damin. "Will there be anything else, your highness? Anything at all? More ale? Wine? Food?"

"Thank you, Fee, but this ale and your smile are all I need. Take care of your other customers."

Still blushing an interesting shade of crimson, Fyora curtsied awkwardly and, with a great deal of reluctance, left the booth and headed back to the counter. Wrayan frowned at Damin disapprovingly. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" he asked, full of wounded innocence.

"Flirt with her like that. She's old enough to be your mother."

"Actually, she's probably older than my mother," Damin noted. "And, excuse me, but I wasn't flirting with her! I was just being nice, that's all."

Wrayan looked at Starros for help. "You explain it to him."

Starros put down his ale, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and nodded in agreement.

"Wrayan's got a point, Damin."

"What point?"

"You're Krakandar's prince. You shouldn't get too familiar with the working court'esa."

Damin stared at Starros in horror. "This from the man who stopped me in the middle of the Beggars' Quarter to introduce me to a couple of them! Gods, Starros! Don't frighten me like that! For a moment there, I thought you were Mahkas. And, if you don't mind, just exactly what's so wrong with getting to know the working court'esa of my city?"

Wrayan laughed delightedly. "Oh, please, can you ask us that again, Damin? When your uncle is around to answer it? And can I watch?"

Damin grinned, knowing it would be worth selling tickets to see Mahkas's reaction. "Think I might, now you mention it. Should liven up the conversation at dinner tonight, at the very least." His grin faded a little then and he took another swig from the tankard, adding sourly, "It might even get the topic off a few other things I'm getting rather tired of hearing about."

Wrayan studied the two young men curiously for a moment. "Trouble up in paradise?"

"Lord Damaran is just being . . . Lord Damaran," Starros explained.

By the defeated tone of his voice, Wrayan guessed it had something to do with Leila. "So you and your cousin aren't exactly . . . falling in love?" he asked Damin.

When the prince hesitated before answering, Starros shrugged. "It's all right, Damin. Wrayan knows."

"Then you can understand how little I want any part of this," Damin said, the first time Wrayan could recall ever seeing him so serious. "I've written to my mother and asked her to clear up the situation, but I don't hold out much hope that her answer will get here before Mahkas has Leila escorted naked into my room like some sacrificial lamb and tied hand and foot to the bed to await my princely pleasure."

"It can't be that bad, surely?"

Starros nodded in agreement with the prince. "He as good as told Damin he could have Leila if he wanted her."

"Any way I wanted her," Damin added unhappily.

Wrayan felt for both young men, knowing how awkward it must be for them. That their friendship seemed to be weathering the storm so well was a good sign, though. This could easily have destroyed it, had either young man doubted the other's integrity. "I wish I could offer some useful advice, boys, but I think you're right, Damin. Mahkas is only going to believe your mother."

"Can't you do something to him?" Damin asked hopefully.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a magician, aren't you? Can't you put a spell on him, or something like that? Make him stop believing I'm ever going to marry his daughter?"

"What you're asking for is called coercion," Wrayan explained. "Even if I had the skill to work one, I wouldn't attempt it. You can't make someone believe something they fundamentally disagree with, Damin, and expect it to hold for long. Besides, the Harshini really frown on that sort of thing."

Seeing that Damin wasn't totally convinced, he warned, "And don't even think of asking Rorin to do it.

He'd have less chance than me of making it work."

"It was just a thought."

"Make sure it stays that way." Wrayan glanced around the tavern, noting it was almost filled to capacity by now, the crowd starting to edge a little closer to the booth. "And unless you're planning to fight your way out of here, my lad, I suggest you get going while you can still find the door."

Damin looked at the rapidly swelling crowd and nodded. "I suppose we should. Thanks for the drink."

"My pleasure," Wrayan assured him, rising to his feet, thinking the only way Damin was going to get out of the Pickpocket's Retreat now, without being mobbed, was if Wrayan physically elbowed a path for him through to the door. "I imagine you don't get served ale too often in the palace."

"It's not Mahkas's vintage of choice, no," Damin agreed with a chuckle. They slid off the bench and Starros automatically fell in on the other side of the prince as he stood up. Wrayan and Starros turned for the door.

Damin, however, did quite the opposite.

Unexpectedly, the young prince walked across to the nearest table, where several rough-looking workmen sat, nursing their ales and watching this highborn interloper warily. Damin smiled and introduced himself to the shocked commoners, which immediately precipitated exactly what Wrayan had been hoping to avoid. The young man was mobbed by the scores of people who'd come to gape at him, all wanting to say they'd met the young Prince of Krakandar, or shaken his hand, or even that they'd touched him.

"What the hell is he doing?" Wrayan asked Starros in annoyance. "Damin should know better than to place himself in a situation so potentially advantageous to an assassin."

"Securing his throne," Starros replied, putting his arm out to prevent Wrayan interfering. "Leave him be for a moment."

"Are you mad?"

Starros smiled knowingly. "Don't let Damin fool you, Wrayan. He's always been smarter than he pretends. Underneath that jolly exterior, he's a smarter politician than his mother."

Wrayan wasn't entirely convinced. "I know what you mean . . . I've wondered the same, myself .

. . but even so, Starros, Almodavar would kill Damin himself, if he saw him risking such close contact in a crowd like this without his bodyguard present."

"And every man and woman in this place probably knows that, Wrayan," Starros pointed out, looking around at the mob of thieves and beggars clamouring for the young prince's attention. "Yet he does it anyway, and he's not afraid. You mark my word, news of this will get around the city before we're back at the palace. The Prince of Krakandar isn't too scared or too proud to mix with his own people. That's what they'll be saying. He couldn't make the citizens of Krakandar love him more if he paid them in gold."

Wrayan looked at Starros for a moment and then shook his head. "I'm not sure what's worse, Starros. That Damin might be so calculating, or that you actually admire him for it."

"Damin's not being calculating," Starros replied confidently. "He's probably not even aware of what he's doing. Look at him, Wrayan. He's not faking anything. He really does like these people and he really isn't afraid of them."

Wrayan watched Damin greet the patrons of the Pickpocket's Retreat, laugh and shake hands and even kiss a baby thrust into his arms for luck, and knew Starros was right. Damin was having the time of his life. It didn't make him any less nervous that something might happen to the prince in such close confines, but it was clear that Damin's popularity was more than just the hopeful wish by these people for their own prince in a city ruled for much of the past half century by caretakers and regents.

These people finally had a lord of their own and they all wanted a little piece of him to keep for themselves, and Damin appeared happy to oblige them.

It took them the better part of an hour to make it from the table Damin had first stopped at to the door. By the time they got there, Wrayan was fairly certain that Damin Wolfblade owned every heart in the Beggars' Quarter.

Chapter 56.

Sealing the city and decimating the rat population might have slowed the advance of the plague in Krakandar, but it caused other problems that soon became apparent, the foremost of which was food.

Although the grain store in the inner ring of the city held enough to keep the population fed for about a month and a half in an emergency, there was little else on offer and it was a delegation from the Krakandar Chamber of Commerce who suggested a cattle raid into Medalon to address the problem.

"Why a cattle raid into Medalon?" Mahkas asked, when the delegation consisting of the elected leader of the Chamber of Commerce, Hyreld Weaver, and several of his fellow members of the various trade guilds confronted the regent with the problem a few days after Damin and Starros had met with Wrayan in the Pickpocket's Retreat.

"Why not?" Damin asked in reply.

Mahkas glanced over his shoulder at Damin with a frown. Damin stood just behind his uncle's right hand, the fitting place for Krakandar's heir. Mahkas was sitting at his carved and polished desk, his gilded chair almost large enough to be called a throne. It was a recent acquisition, this almost-a-throne of his uncle's. Damin didn't remember it being here the last time he was home.

"I invited you to attend this meeting so that you may learn something of administering the province, Damin," Mahkas scolded. "Not to trivialise the importance of it with flippant comments like that."

"Sorry, Uncle." It was raining outside, the world grey and uninviting, but it was still preferable to being stuck here inside the palace discussing cows. Even rats were more interesting than this.

Almodavar, Orleon and Starros waited behind the delegation from the Chamber of Commerce. Damin suspected they were as bored as he was, just better at not letting it show.

"If we're going to start cutting into our own herds, my lord," the delegate from the Butchers'

Guild explained patiently, "we'll face problems later in the year that can easily be avoided by taking stock from over the border. Most of our cows are already with calf, ready to drop them in the spring. To slaughter them now would be detrimental to their numbers."

"Won't the cows in Medalon be with calf, as well?" Mahkas asked.

"Certainly," Hyreld Weaver agreed with a perfectly straight face. "But they are atheist cows, my lord, and therefore their numbers are of no interest to us at all."

Damin coughed to cover the laugh he just knew his uncle would disapprove of. He dared not look at Starros, who was probably on the verge of doing the same thing. Atheist cows, for the gods'

sake!

"Something has to be done, my lord," another fat little merchant urged. "If you intend to keep the population confined, you must find a way to feed them." The man looked as if he could miss quite a few meals and not suffer any detrimental effects.

"Perhaps you should discuss that with my nephew, Master Goldsmith. It was his idea, after all, to seal the city."

The merchants all looked at Damin in surprise. "Your idea, your highness?"

"Guilty, I'm afraid."

"You agreed with our proposal then?" the butcher asked.

"What proposal?"

"Why, the one in which we suggested the very same thing. The Chamber of Commerce drafted it not three days before you arrived." Master Weaver beamed at him. "You've no idea how relieved we were when we heard our suggestion had been acted upon."

Damin glanced down at Mahkas, wondering why his uncle had mentioned nothing about it.

"Well . . . obviously, I . . . we . . . agreed with your assessment of the situation, Master Weaver,"

he replied, a little uncertainly. Had Mahkas just ignored the damn thing?

"Then you will have read our recommendation that we should be raiding across the border, and will agree to that, too."

"What if the Medalonians have closed their border against the plague?" Mahkas asked brusquely. It was hard to tell if he was angry or just being businesslike.

"Unlikely, my lord," Almodavar replied. "It's too long, too open and too impractical. If they're worried about plague spreading into Medalon, they'll be concentrating their efforts in the towns and cities. If anything, they'll be more vulnerable to attack than ever."

"There!" the weaver declared. "It is just as Captain Almodavar says. Safe as houses. And vital for the sake of the city."