The Thief's Daughter by Jeff Wheeler Page A

returned from Westmarch. From Occitania, actually.”
    “So it would seem,” Tunmore said. “I heard you arrived yesterday. What news from the borderlands?” He looked like a starving man seeking crumbs from a rich man’s table. Though he tried to keep his voice smooth and unconcerned, Owen could sense he was restless.
    “Would it interest you to know that Lord Horwath and I sent King Chatriyon fleeing? His army was completely routed.”
    Tunmore’s face grew visibly pale. “Indeed? What a surprise. How fortunate for you. I’m flattered you came all this way to tell me about your exploits .”
    Owen shook his head. “That’s not the fortunate part, Deconeus. We found something in Chatriyon’s tent. A letter.”
    Tunmore frowned. “Are you suggesting I wrote a letter to the King of Occitania?”
    “No, I am not. It’s what was in the letter that was so interesting.” Owen tugged his belt and withdrew the letter. He had requested that one of the Espion forgers copy it during the night. To Owen’s untrained eye, it looked identical to the original. He offered the letter to the other man.
    Tunmore took it and pursed his lips. He opened the letter and began to devour the contents. As Owen watched the other man’s eyes move over the words, he felt the subtle churn of the Fountain. It was as if a winch had turned and opened a sluice gate, rushing water into the deconeus’s reserves. And Owen realized in an instant that this was how Tunmore fed his magic with the Fountain. It was through news, gossip, lurid intrigue, treason—the machinations of courts and politics fed him, sustained him, and gave him his power. Being trapped in the sanctuary of Our Lady had deprived him of his main sources of information. Owen’s own source of power was more flexible. He derived it from stacking tiles, playing Wizr, or reading challenging works—anything that taxed his wits and made him think intently.
    Owen snatched the letter from the Eel’s hand and literally felt the sluice gates slam shut.
    The deconeus’s eyes were wide with panic, and he almost tried to grab the letter back from Owen. It was the food the hungry man craved.
    “I was not . . . quite done reading that yet,” Tunmore said, stammering, his hand trembling.
    “I know you are Fountain-blessed,” Owen said softly.
    The deconeus stiffened, seemingly shocked at Owen’s words. “How can you suggest such a thing? I am close to the Fountain by virtue of my office, but I assure you that your understanding of me is quite mistaken.”
    “And I assure you that it is not,” Owen answered evenly. “Just as I am sure you know about the chest that disappeared from the fountain. You’re the one who put it there. You took it from the cistern at the palace, did you not?”
    Tunmore’s face was white. “How could you possibly know that?” he said through clenched teeth.
    “Because I too can see the treasure in the cistern, and that chest was dragged away right before you made your escape to Our Lady. And these lies you’ve written,” Owen continued, holding up the wrinkled note, “will be brought to light.”
    Tunmore’s face sank into a mask of fear and dread. He looked like a man standing on a precarious bridge, one that was about to collapse. “You have no idea, little pup ,” Tunmore whispered harshly, “what is truly happening here. What you risk in supporting that monster. This is not about kings and courts and Espion. There is more at stake here than you can even comprehend. You pretend to have the sight, but you see nothing!”
    Just then Clark walked up to them. His face was composed and neutral, but his eyes were gleaming. There was a folded note in his hand, the wax seal broken.
    “My lord, I found it,” Clark said as he handed the note to Owen.
    “Where did you . . . ? That is mine !” Tunmore blustered. He reached for the note, but Clark seized his wrist and applied pressure to a sensitive spot. Suddenly the deconeus was wobbling on his