Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

  “You like that, boy?” Bikker asked.

  “I’m not an infant,” Malden said, taking a long drink. “I’m almost twenty. Please stop calling me ‘boy.’ ”

  Bikker smiled broadly, showing off the gaps where some of his teeth used to be. “You going to try to run off again, boy, as soon as you can stand? Or are you going to talk to me now?”

  Cythera glanced around the room. Whenever her blue eyes passed over one of the staring patrons, they flinched and looked away. “Bikker,” she said, “we need more privacy than this. Where should we go?”

  “I’m tired out after chasing this cur,” Bikker told her. “I like this place just fine. You lot, out now. Barkeep, you can go, too.”

  “By Sadu’s eight elbows, I will not,” the barkeep told him. “Just run off like a scolded brat, and leave you here with my till and all my stock?” She snorted in derision.

  Bikker shrugged hugely. Then he reached behind him and drew his sword.

  It made a strange slick sound as it came out of its scabbard, and when revealed, was not the shiny length of steel Malden had expected. Instead it looked like a bar of iron, three feet long, with no real edge. The iron was pitted and rough, like something that had been left in a tomb for centuries before it was picked up again. It looked a little slick, too-and as Malden watched, bubbles formed on its surface, then congregated in thick clots until it looked like the sword was drooling. A drop of the clear fluid ran down the sword’s edge and dripped on the dirt floor, where it hissed and smoked on the packed earth.

  “You may wish to move aside,” Bikker said to Malden, who jumped off the table quickly, ignoring the throbbing pain in his face and head. Bikker swung the sword around in a wide arc that brought it crashing down on the oak table. With an explosive hiss like a dozen angry snakes striking at once, the blade sank through the thick wood and through the other side. The table fell in two halves, split clean down the middle, against the grain of the wood. The wetness of the blade-it must be vitriol, Malden realized, of some very potent type-gave off foul vapors that stung his nose. For a moment he could do naught but look at the sundered table. It was still bubbling and dissolving wherever the acid sword had touched it. Then he looked up and saw that everyone-patrons and barkeep alike-had fled the room.

  “There,” Bikker said. “Privacy.”

  Cythera sighed deeply, though there was an affectation to the sound that made Malden think she was accustomed to being annoyed with Bikker’s antics. “They’ll be back soon enough. And they’ll probably bring the watch.”

  Bikker shrugged. He sheathed his sword. Malden saw that the interior of the scabbard was lined with glass, no doubt to keep the acid from burning its way through. The big man said, then, “So let us speak quickly to the boy, and then we can all be on our way. Boy,” Bikker called.

  “Malden. At least use my name.”

  “Boy,” Bikker said, walking over behind the bar and pouring himself a pitcher full of strong ale, “you are a thief, is that correct? This wasn’t the first time you ever cut a purse. Judging by the way you scampered up those rooftops, I imagine you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “Listen,” Malden said, “the silver I took from you, it’s all-it’s here somewhere.” He reached down across his chest and realized that his sling and his fake arm had been removed. Looking up, he saw that Cythera held them-and his bodkin, too. “I’ll give it back, right? And everything else I took today, you can have that as well. Just let me go.”

  “Bugger the silver! There’s plenty more where it came from!” Bikker shouted. He lifted his pitcher and drank lustily from it until foam drenched his beard.

  “We don’t wish to punish you,” Cythera said. “We wish to hire a skilled thief for… well, our purposes must remain unspoken, of course. We wish to hire a master thief for a certain job.”

  More where it came from, Malden thought. More silver. Enough the brute didn’t even bother keeping hold of the pittance he’d had with him. More. “Are you?” he said. “Well, luck is with you, for I-”

  “Can you recommend anyone like that?” Cythera asked.

  “I–I can indeed,” Malden said, and raised himself up to his full height. “I know a thief with no equal in the Free City. One more than up to whatever task you set him.” He gave her his most dashing look.

  “Yes?” she said patiently.

  “Milady, I am at your service.”

  She frowned. “No, I mean, what is his name, this paragon of thieves?”

  “It’s-well, me.”

  Bikker laughed so hard he spilled his ale. Cythera’s face didn’t change, but her icy blue eyes looked Malden up and down and then flicked away.

  “We don’t want a pickpocket, boy! We want a thief. A… a burglar, a… second story man, a-”

  “And I tell you, you’ve found him.” Malden brushed past Cythera-she gave a short gasp as he nearly touched her-and over to stand before Bikker. He had to look up to meet the swordsman’s gaze but he held it. “Why, just the other day, Cutbill, the master of thieves, expressed his deep admiration for my skills. He listened to the story of how I stole plate and silver from Guthrun Whiteclay’s house and said he’d never heard of a finer scheme enacted so skillfully. And he should know.”

  “Cutbill.” Bikker glanced across at Cythera. “You’re one of his crew?”

  “Indeed,” Malden said.

  “Only-we need this to stay between us. It can’t get back to him, or the world will know our business. At least, it will if it has the coppers to buy the information.”

  “Discretion is my watchword. Though it does cost extra.”

  Bikker shook his head and quaffed more ale.

  “You’ve seen how quick I am,” Malden insisted.

  “We did, at that,” Cythera agreed. “He would have gotten away from you, Bikker, if I hadn’t been there to distract him. And the man we need will have to know how to climb. He showed us that as well.”

  The swordsman hunched his shoulders. He was half convinced, Malden knew, and he already had Cythera on his side. Time to close the deal, before Bikker could reconsider.

  “For this job I will require the sum of one hundred and one gold royals,” Malden announced.

  Bikker smiled. “You haven’t yet heard what it entails. We might be getting a bargain for that price.”

  A bargain at one hundred and one royals? More silver where that came from, Bikker had said. How much more? “Of course, that does not include incidentals, the fees of the dwarf who makes my gear, bribe money, hazard bonuses, surcharges for quick resolution, gratuities-”

  Bikker leaned back against the bar. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Malden.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sorcerer Aelbron Hazoth lived in an imposing four story edifice where the Lady’s sacred parklands abutted the city wall, most of the way downhill from the palace, in the district called Parkwall.

  It was not the safest district in town, though it had its recommending features. Like the Ashes, it had originally been a residential district for the poor until it burned down in the Seven Day Fire. Unlike that wasteland, Parkwall had been laboriously cleared, the remains of the old houses scraped away and the land allowed to go to seed. Now Parkwall was a zone of lush grass, a green common kept cropped by the sheep and goats of the people of the Stink, a spacious greensward in a city that had very little green space. The tall crowded houses of the Stink drew away on either side to let in the air. It was rumored to be the healthiest place in town-the plagues that swept through Ness every few winters often skipped Parkwall entirely-but its openness and lack of well-lighted streets had drawn footpads and thieves, and it was counted terribly dangerous by night. A few fine houses had been built in Parkwall to take advantage of the pleasantly rustic environs, but these were all surrounded by their own walls and wrought-iron fences to keep out the uninvited.

  Such as Sir Croy, for instance.

  The knight had found lodging at a nearby villa. After escaping from the gi
bbet, he thought he would be a hunted man, that no place would be safe for him, but in fact it did not take long before he had a place of refuge. He did not lack for friends in the Free City, some of whom were stalwart enough to hide him from the watch. A rich merchant had found him wandering in the Golden Slope and begged to bring him home. Croy accepted, though he had no money to pay the man. The merchant insisted none was required, and Croy had praised his good heart in all the words he knew. The merchant assured him that Croy would bring him great fame and social status, but Croy knew the man was just being kind. He gave Croy a suite of rooms all to himself and ordered his servants to see to his every wish.

  This night he was laying spread out on a bench in a roof garden, pretending to take his ease. It was a likely enough occupation. This close to Ladymas and the hottest time of year, anyone with sense was up on a rooftop or in a garden, trying to catch a breeze. Anyone who saw him might think him yet another pampered noble attempting to stay cool. In truth, he had come up to the roof garden to watch Hazoth’s house. Croy was a man of action, but this evening he had spent almost motionless on the bench, taking only a little wine and some nuts for sustenance. One thing only would bid him tarry so. For hours he had kept an eye on the place, watching who came and who went, hoping to spy a glimpse of Cythera.

  After midnight he got his chance. She and Bikker came traipsing over the grassy common. The place had a reputation for being full of footpads after dark, but the two seemed to pay no special heed to their surroundings. Instead they were deep in conversation. Croy even got the sense they might be arguing.

  He placed a salted almond between his lips and bit down hard. He longed-oh, how he desired it! — to call out, to wave, to get her attention somehow. He longed to jump down from his perch and run to her side, to catch her up in his strong arms (even knowing what a mistake that would be) and carry her off to his castle. Failing that, he would have been glad even for a moment’s soft conversation, for a renewed exchange of promises and honeyed words.

  But it would not happen tonight. Tonight he could only watch.

  The guards at Hazoth’s door challenged the pair, but Bikker reached for his sword’s hilt and the armored sentries fell back. The two of them stopped just inside the sorcerer’s gate, however, and waited for something Croy could not see. When it came, he felt it instead. There was a sudden change in air pressure, or perhaps merely the crickets in the grass all fell silent at once. It was like the night itself held its breath.

  It lasted a bare moment. Then it was over, and Cythera and Bikker entered the villa’s grounds and went their separate ways. He, toward a low shed at the side of the house that Croy knew served as barracks for the sorcerer’s guards. She, into the house through the stables-like a common servant.

  How he felt the need to rush down there and follow her, to reach-quite gently, of course-for her hand in the shadows, to breathe her name and see recognition in her eyes. But not tonight.

  Not while the house was shielded so patently by some spell-a spell even she must wait to pass.

  Not tonight. Not until he could get his weapons back.

  It was time to find out what friends, if any, he had left in the palace.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day Malden spent in preparation.

  It was mad even to consider going through with this. The job he’d been hired for was, if not impossible, distinctly ill-advised. It was going to make of him a pigeon in the midst of a pack of dogs. If the plan failed in the slightest particular, it would mean a quick but nasty death, a spear through his lights, or an axe through his skull. Cutbill’s influence could not protect him from that.

  Yet if it worked-it couldn’t, of course, it was the worst kind of folly, but — if it worked, he would be clear of his debt to the guildmaster of thieves before the sun rose tomorrow morning. He would be a full member of the guild, with all the rights and privileges thereunto pertaining. He would be a free man again. Better, by far, because he would be on his way to wealth. On his way to being a man of means.

  In the Free City of Ness, that was the only thing that counted.

  He made his way to the Ashes early, just as the sun was rising over the city’s wall. The gang of children that guarded Cutbill’s headquarters did not show themselves-they already knew he belonged there. Loophole, Lockjaw, and ’Levenfingers were inside the ruin already, though. As far as he knew, they were there all day, every day, sitting on the empty coffin. The old men greeted him warmly and asked him what schemes he had planned for the day. They asked every time he visited. “A little of the same,” he told them. “Though to be honest, my heart’s not in it.”

  “Be of good cheer, lad,” Loophole told him. “Money comes to them that keep their eyes open.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Malden would gladly have spoken with the old men, for he’d learned they were a sure font of wisdom. If any of them knew how this job could be done, this fantastically impossible job, surely it was one of them. Yet he knew that anything he said to them-even to Lockjaw-would be reported to Cutbill at once. In addition, Bikker and Cythera were quite clear that his fee included a hefty sum to make sure Cutbill never learned of the plan. So he kept his peace and headed inside.

  He had learned on his second visit, some days ago, that it was not necessary to travel by coffin every time you visited Cutbill’s burrow. That was just for new arrivals, a kind of object lesson to remind them their lives were forfeit if they crossed Cutbill in any way. Actual employees had their own entrance through a trapdoor hidden in the debris of the fallen house. It led to a door below, hidden behind a curtain. There were many doors in Cutbill’s domain, and all of them were hidden. Malden was certain he’d seen only a fraction of the guildhall in his visits.

  In the main room, Bellard was throwing darts at a target on one wall. The permanent dice game was going on in the corner, but only two players had risen so early. There were others there, thieves like himself, pimps come to pay their tithe to the master, procurers dividing up their stash, and one fellow dressed in dusty traveling clothes that Malden did not recognize. There was something odd about the man, but in the dim light he couldn’t get a good look.

  The traveler was sleeping on the divan when Malden came in, but before he could take two steps into the room, the man bolted upright and reached inside his tunic, probably for a knife. His beady eyes twinkled in the candlelight as he shot them back and forth, and his lips pulled back in a sneer as if he expected Malden to attack him.

  “Be at ease,” Bellard said. The dust-covered man nodded, lay back down and immediately returned to sleep.

  Malden glanced over at Bellard, who nodded and said, “That’s Kemper. An unsavory character if there ever was one.”

  “He’s a thief, like me?” Malden asked.

  Bellard cocked his head to one side. “Hardly. Little more than a sharper-a card cheat. A vagabond by nature, never stays in any one place for long.”

  “What’s he doing here? Is he one of Cutbill’s?”

  Bellard snorted in derision. “He’s no member of this guild but he pays his respects when he passes through. We wouldn’t abide his sort at all if we had a choice, as he’s wanted by the reeves of every village within a hundred miles of here. He’s called on an old tradition of sanctuary, though, so we must let him lie here until he thinks it’s safe to head out again. Of course, the tradition doesn’t preclude Cutbill from charging him rent.”

  Malden shrugged. Good to know such a tradition existed, he supposed-who knew when he might need it himself? Yet his business was with Slag, the dwarf, so he made his way quickly to the workbench and brazier at the far side of the room.

  “Need somewhat?” the dwarf demanded, looking up as Malden approached. He was no less ugly in daytime, though of course the sun never shone down in Cutbill’s hiding hole. “Or you just wanted a kiss?”

  Malden smiled. “There’s a job I’m casing right now,” he said, “and it’s going to be tricky. I need a few things to see it out
.”

  “If I can’t build it, you’re not good enough to need it,” Slag replied.

  Malden listed his requirements and the dwarf nodded. He said he had everything in stock-the items Malden requested were not too exceptional-and would provide them for hire, for a price. The price was steep, but Malden could cover it with the coins in his purse, just barely. Good thing, too, as the dwarf expected payment in advance.

  “That way, when your arse is killed on the job, I don’t have to go down into the fucking Bloodgod’s underworld to get what you owe me.”

  “Your confidence in me is inspiring,” Malden said. He waited for the dwarf to go to his storeroom and fetch the things. It took quite a while, so he played at darts with Bellard to pass the time. He managed to lose another tuppence before the dwarf returned. Malden had deft hands, but Bellard had the keener eye.

  The tools came wrapped in sailcloth that had been treated with tar to make it waterproof. It would keep the rust off. “Return ’em in the shape you found ’em, or there’s an extra fee,” Slag told him.

  “And so I shall. Farewell, Bellard. Farewell, all.” Bellard grunted a response but no one else even looked up as Malden headed back to the light of day. The three old masters were a bit more cordial, but he didn’t spend long speaking to them.

  He had some time to squander, so he walked all the way uphill to the old Chapterhouse of the Learned Brothers, which was said to be haunted, before heading south around the curve of the city wall, down through the warren of close-spaced houses that marked the eastern extent of the Stink, then farther south to the homes of the fishermen and sailors who took the goods of Ness to ports around the world. It was a very long and pointless route, but it kept him always in the broad streets where most honest people traveled, and away from dark alleys and sheltered closes.