Reave the Just and Other Tales by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

reason to know, for he approached no one, addressed no one, was seen by no one. Instead, he waited until night came and grew deep over Forebridge, until grooms and breeders, cooks and scullions, servingmen and secretaries had retired to their quarters, until only the hungry mastiffs were awake within the walls because the guards who should have tended them had lost interest in their duties. He waited until Kelven, alone in his study, had finished readying his plans to ruin an ally who had aided him loyally during a recent trading war, and had poured himself a glass of fine brandy so that he would have something to drink while he amused himself with Jillet. Only then did Reave approach the Divestulata’s desk in order to study him through the dim light of the lamps.
    Kelven was not easily taken aback, but Reave’s unexpected appearance came as a shock. “Satan’s balls!” he growled shamelessly. “Who in hell are
you
?”
    His visitor replied with a smile which was not at all kindly. “I am grieved,” he admitted, “that you did not believe I would come. I am not as well known as I had thought—or men such as you do not sufficiently credit my reputation. I am Reave the Just.”
    If Reave anticipated shock, distress, or alarm in response to this announcement, he was disappointed. Kelven took a moment to consider the situation, as though to assure himself that he had heard rightly. Then he leaned back in his chair and laughed like one of his mastiffs.
    “So he spoke the truth. What an amazing thing. But you are slow, Reave the Just. That purported kinsman of yours has been dead for days. I doubt that you will ever find his grave.”
    “In point of fact,” Reave replied in an undisturbed voice, “we are not kinsmen. I came to Forebridge to discover why a man of no relation would claim me as he did. Is he truly dead? Then I will not learn the truth from him. That”—in the lamplight, Reave’s eyes glittered like chips of mica—“will displease me greatly, Kelven Divestulata.”
    Before Kelven could respond, Reave asked, “How did he die?”
    “How?” Kelven mulled the question. “As most men do. He came to the end of himself.” The muscles of his jaw bunched. “You will encounter the same fate yourself—eventually. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine why you have not done so already. Your precious reputation”—he pursed his lips—“is old enough for death.”
    Reave ignored this remark. “You are disingenuous, Kelven. My question was less philosophical. How did Jillet die? Did you kill him?”
    “I? Never!” Kelven’s protest was sincere. “I believe he brought it upon himself. He is a fool, and he died of a broken heart.”
    “Pining, no doubt,” Reave offered by way of explanation, “for the widow Huchette—”
    A flicker of uncertainty crossed Kelven’s gaze. “No doubt.”
    “—whom you pretend to have married, but who is in fact your prisoner and your victim in her own house.”
    “She is my
wife
!” Kelven snapped before he could stop himself. “I have claimed her. I do not need public approval, or the petty sanctions of the law, for my desires. I have claimed her, and she is
mine
.”
    The lines of Reave’s mouth, and the tightening about his eyes, suggested a variety of retorts, which he did not utter. Instead, he replied mildly, “I observe that you find no fault with my assertion that this house is hers.”
    Kelven spat. “Paugh! Do they call you ‘Reave the Just’ because you are honest, or because you are ‘just a fool’? This house was awarded to me publicly, by a
magistrate
,
in compensation for harm done to my interests by that dead thief, Rudolph Huchette.”
    The Divestulata’s intentions against Reave, which he had announced to Jillet, grew clearer with every passing moment. For some years now, upon occasions during the darkest hours of the night, and in the deepest privacy of his heart, he had considered himself to be the natural antagonist of men like