It also led him past the King’s Gate, so called because it opened on the road to the royal fortress of Helstrow, a hundred miles away. Malden paused a moment to muse that Helstrow might as well be on the far side of the moon. He had never traveled more than a mile in any given direction in his life. He could not, bound as he was by the city’s walls.
The gate stood twenty feet high-tall enough for knights to ride through with their lances raised. It was made of the same bluish stone as the city wall, and on this side was fronted by a massive triumphal arch celebrating some military victory or other. Malden doubted anyone living in the Stink could have told him what battle it commemorated. He let his gaze wander briefly over the carved figures of soldiers fighting wicked elves, but what really drew his eye was the land beyond the gate.
It was green, for one thing. Green grass grew out there, catching the sun. It was so wide and open, and not a soul in sight. Malden took a few steps into the narrow tunnel of the gate and found the guards there didn’t even look at him. No, of course not-they had no brief to keep people from leaving. The people of Ness were free to go outside if they pleased. They just weren’t free to come back in.
The sun on the grass out there looked so warm and inviting. A summer breeze played with the blades of it, stirring them gently, then letting them fall back. Behind Malden, in the Stink, all was noise and grime and desperation. Out there it would be quiet, he thought. Quiet and peaceful and “Make way, you little fuck!” someone shouted, and suddenly a brown and black dog was snarling at him, its wet teeth snapping shut on his cloak. Malden looked up in startlement and just had time to jump back as a mounted man came thundering through the gate, heedless of where his horse’s hooves fell. The owner of the dog, a footman wearing the same coat of arms as the rider, shoved Malden back against the wall of the gate with a cudgel. “There’s people of importance trying to use this gate, and you’re just standing here gawking?”
Malden tried to stammer out a reply. “I assure you, I was simply-”
The footman knocked him down with the cudgel, and probably would have beaten him senseless if he hadn’t needed to run off then, to keep up with his master. Down in the dust Malden felt at his ear where the footman had struck him. He was glad his fingers didn’t come away bloody.
“Oh, just get out of there,” a guard said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the gate. “You’re lucky I don’t dump you outside and let the reeve take you.”
Lucky indeed. The green grass out there might look inviting, but the second he trod on it he would have legally become a villein. A slave, in all but name.
But if he had a little money to his name-if he could purchase even a small plot of land in some cheap place… the story would be different. And that was what Cutbill had promised him, wasn’t it?
Cutbill had said he was a prisoner in Ness. Malden had never felt that way before-now he could think of himself in no other terms. A prisoner. And Cutbill had the means to set him free.
It could happen tonight, for the price of a little risk.
The rest of the morning he spent cutting purses down at the fish market by Eastpool. He needed to earn back all he’d spent or be penniless by nightfall. He supped on cockles at a little shack by the river gate and then rented a room in a doss-house frequented by sailors. He would gladly have gone back to his own rooms above the waxchandler’s but he had to make sure none of Cutbill’s people saw him when he met Cythera later.
Much of his movement during the day had been for this purpose. He knew that Cutbill would have spies watching him, especially if he seemed bent on some specific task. Then there would be the unaligned thieves, the pickpockets and grifters of too small account to join the guild. They tended to follow Cutbill’s people around the way gulls will follow a galleon, hoping to pick up scraps left behind by the more established thieves. Malden knew he had to make sure none of either sort were aware of what he was doing, so he spent the day acting as if he had nothing planned at all. There had been no reason to rise early, and in fact he spent the afternoon asleep in his rented bed. It was just past midsummer, with the festival of Ladymas less than a fortnight away, and the sun would not set until well into the evening.
When he rose, he brushed the bed’s freight of insects from his hair and clothes, then climbed out the window and up onto the roof of the doss-house. He was relatively certain no one was following him, but to be sure he crossed three streets by the rooftops, leaping silently from one building to another. When he dropped down to street level again he was at the very edge of the river Skrait. He traveled northward again, upriver, by moving from pier to dock to wharf-hundreds of them stuck out from the riverbank, as each house along the Skrait had its own. He ended up deep in the Smoke, the region of manufactories and workshops where tanners, papermakers and bookbinders, hatters, blacksmiths, brewers, and bakers all plied their trades. The shops stained the air with their fumes and turned the river black with their dumping, and the smell was intense-the region downwind of the Smoke was called the Stink for good reason. It was here that Malden was to meet Cythera.
He had time to consider what he was doing. He had time to wonder if he was mad, or if he truly expected to live through this. He had time to think of that green grass beyond the gate, and how good it would feel under his feet. Eventually the sun went down and he had no more time to think.
When she came for him, gliding out of the vapors in a tiny boat she rowed herself, she asked him if he was ready. He spoke no word, but simply dropped into the boat and grabbed a pair of oars.
Chapter Fourteen
As they hauled away from the Smoke and up the river toward the Golden Slope and the Spires, the docks and piers that stuck out into the water grew fewer in number. The river narrowed and grew faster, so they had to row all the harder. The water turned clean again, with only the occasional floating bit of sewage or debris to mar its churning surface. The river Skrait had driven its channel right through the northern half of Castle Hill, creating a winding canyon through half the Free City. Conforming to the slope of the hill, the ground along the riverbanks grew higher until it had to be held back by retaining walls, so that eventually they traveled between two high and sloping walls of ancient brick, with moss slowly eating away its mortar. Here and there a tree had taken root directly into the bricks, and its branches swayed over them, its leaves making the moonlight flicker through the mist that hung over the water.
The river bent away from them, concealed by the rising wall. Malden saw a glimmer of light. “Hold, someone’s coming,” he whispered, and reached back to grab Cythera’s arm. He was strangely hurt when she yanked her arm away before he could touch it.
What he saw took all his concentration and kept him from thinking why. A long boat came nosing around the corner-little more than a dugout, really, its sides well-patched. An old woman stood in the stern, poling the boat downriver, while half a dozen children leaned over the thwarts. They skimmed the water with long hooks, snatching at every piece of jetsam they passed. One held an oil lamp just above the surface, illuminating a milky patch of water.
“Move aside and let them go past,” Malden said. Cythera steered her boat over toward the last of the docks on the southern side of the Skrait. One of the children raised his dripping hook in thanks.
“What are they looking for?” Cythera asked, her voice a tight whisper, no louder than the rustling of leaves.
“Anything they can sell. A cloak dropped into the water from the bank of the Royal Ditch. Waste leather from one of the tanneries in the Smoke.” Malden shrugged. “A dead body that might still have a purse on its belt.”
He heard Cythera gasp. “Truly? They might find such a gruesome haul? Those poor children!”
Malden frowned. He knew she had money to spare, but could she really be so sheltered by it that she didn’t understand basic necessities? “They would cherish it. It would mean they could eat for a week.”
The old woman waved cheerily at them as she pushed past. Malden waited until
the boat of mudlarks was gone from view, then signaled to Cythera that they could move again.
“It’s not well that they saw us,” she suggested, but as if she hoped he would reassure her.
“Even if the city watch found them and asked what they saw this night,” he said, “they’d never describe us. They know if we’re abroad this late we’re of their kind-of the great confraternity of desperate folk. They’d never betray us.”
Behind him, he heard her sigh in relief. He wished he could assure himself so easily. But there was nothing for it-they couldn’t turn back now. Pushing on, they made their way up the river until the walls surrounded them on either side.
There was no sound but the dripping and knocking of their oars. They saw no more boats, not at that late hour. Malden kept an eye on the tops of the retaining walls, making sure no one was looking down to follow their progress. He did not see anyone.
It was hard work, rowing upriver, and for a while they did it in silence. It was boring work, too, however, and eventually Malden started talking just to have something to do. He kept his voice very low, knowing that sound travels far over water, but she did not try to silence him.
“I’d pay good coin to know how you pulled that trick yesterday. When you just appeared like that on the roof of the university. It was magic, was it not?”
“If you could define what magic is, and what it is not, you would be wiser than the world’s great sages,” she told him. “It was simply what you called it. A trick.”
“Hmm. And do you know many such?”
“Not many.”
Malden saw that up ahead a zigzagging set of stairs had been carved through the wall, which at this point was nearly thirty feet high. The stairs ended at a solitary dock, but there were no boats at it. All the same, he held his tongue until they were well past.
“And the way you held my gaze? I could not look away, even with that great mountain of a man coming up behind me. Surely that was wizardry.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. There was no guile in her eyes.
“You charmed me,” he said, looking over his shoulder, intending to take her to task for enchanting him. Yet she looked as puzzled as he. “You used some spell.”
“You give me too much credit. I know no such incantation.”
Yet of course it had to be a spell she’d cast on him. Didn’t it? What else could have explained his sudden interest in her eyes, her hair? What explanation would satisfy the facts, other than that she had ensorcelled him?
Malden had grown up in the company of harlots, and knew well the ways of physical love. He’d often heard them talk of the other kind, of romance and true love. They’d even talked of the fabled love-at-first-sight, though most had considered it a myth. He himself had never considered he might feel that way about another human being, much less an enchantress covered in tattoos.
So it must have been magic. There was no other possibility. Was there?
He decided to talk of anything but, rather than continue in that line of thought.
“You intrigue me, Cythera. You seem a lady of quality, yet you associate with the likes of Bikker.”
“He’s not so bad. Honest, in his way.”
“He’s a ruffian. Cheerful, perhaps, but uncouth. I don’t think you chose his company. You work with him because you were ordered to do so. I think you both work for someone else. Someone who wants my services, who-”
“Who shall remain nameless.”
“Very well. Though the number of citizens who could afford your services must be small.”
“Not every wage is paid in coin.”
It was a funny kind of thing to say, and it birthed all manner of questions in Malden’s mind. But it was clear it pained her to speak of it, so he let it go. He had another thing to ask her about anyway.
“Those tattoos on your face and your arms-”
“They are not tattoos.” Her voice grew sharp when she said it.
“The designs, then. Did I really see them move?”
“Yes. They are never still.”
“What artist paints them? What kind of pigment does he use?”
Cythera sighed. “No artist. No paints. They are a curse. Or rather, they were imposed on me as a gift by my mother. Or perhaps she meant to curse another.”
“Your mother was a sorceress? I can believe that, for you certainly enchanted me.” There it was again. That thought he couldn’t explain.
She seemed unwilling to discuss it herself. “You’ll hold that scoundrel tongue of yours, if you know what’s good for you. My mother was never a sorceress. And she still lives. She is a witch.”
“Naturally,” Malden said.
Cythera sighed. “Must you always be so glib?”
“It’s part of my charm.”
“Oh, you have charm? I hadn’t noticed.” But she was smiling.
“You wound me to the heart,” he said. “But it’s all right. We’ll find some way you can make it up to me. When this is over, what say you we both-”
“Stop,” she said, interrupting his half-serious attempt at courting. “Ship your oars.”
He did as she said. “Is this the place? Have we really come so far?”
“Conversation makes any night fly. Yes-look. There is the pipe I was told to seek out. This is exactly the right spot.”
The pipe in question stuck directly out of the wall. Filthy water drained from its end in a constant trickle. It was big enough around for a man to climb through, if it hadn’t been closed by an iron grating. Such a man would have been a fool, of course, for the pipe led nowhere but into the dungeons of the Burgrave.
Malden looked up-and up. The gentle cambered wall above him rose no less than one hundred and fifty feet into the air. Straight to the top of Castle Hill. Up there, far, far in the air, was the Burgrave’s palace.
Malden knew one thing for certain. On Cutbill’s secret protection list, the Burgrave’s name did not appear. The Burgrave, of course, had his own garrison of troops for protection and did not need the aid of the master of thieves.
Malden had never been given a reason why he could not break into the house of the ultimate ruler of the Free City of Ness and pilfer his most prized possession. Most likely this was because no one had ever thought him so stupid as to try it.
At least not until Bikker and Cythera had come along.
“When you reach the top, do not scamper over the parapets directly,” Cythera whispered. “Remember-Bikker will create a diversion in the courtyard. The guards up there will rush to investigate. That is your only chance to get in unseen. Move quickly, though not so quickly you fall prey to a trap. Recover the… the item we asked for, then come back here as fast as you can. Do not take anything else. It is critical that you do not leave any evidence you were there, or create any suspicion that the thing is gone.”
He was very aware she would not say aloud what it was she wanted, not now when they were so close to it. He filed that away under the myriad things about her he found curious and interesting.
“Start your climb now. I’ll make sure Bikker knows when to do his part.”
“How about a kiss for luck, before I go?” Malden asked.
Cythera laughed.
“From me, such a kiss would token anything but good luck. Quickly, now!”
Malden carefully stood up in the back of the boat. He waited for Cythera to brace herself, both her oars in the water to steady the tiny craft. Then he took a quick step and jumped at the wall, his hands out and fingers spread to find whatever purchase was there.
It was not difficult. The bricks were sturdy, but the mortar between them had crumbled away over time. His fingers fit easily between each row of bricks, so that it was like grabbing at the rungs of a ladder.
Once she saw him dangling from the wall like a lizard, Cythera bent to her oars and got her boat moving away from the wall. Malden didn’t waste time watching where she went. Instead he started to climb, hand over hand.
S
traight up.
Chapter Fifteen
Malden had learned to climb almost from the time he could walk.
He was not so unusual in that-every child in Ness learned to climb, since so much of the city was on a hillside. The streets were so winding and switch-backed that often the fastest way from one house to another was to go over the house in between rather than around. It was easy enough to move around up on the rooftops, in a city where the streets were so narrow and the second floors of houses almost came together over the alleys. There were places in Ness where if a woman left a pie cooling on a second-story windowsill, the man across the street could reach through his own window and help himself to it. Even small children could jump from one house to another with little danger of falling. A relatively nimble child could run from one end of the Stink to the other across the rooftops without having to do more than occasionally hop. There were few enough opportunities to play in the crowded streets, so children often headed upward to find space for their games.
Malden had shown a real talent for climbing at an early age. He’d had no fear of heights and a love of clean, fresh air, so the tops of the city proved his natural element. His few friends always dared him to climb to the top of a steeple or dance atop a high chimney. Later, when he turned to crime for his livelihood, he found that a man who could run across the rooftops was a man rarely caught by the watch. So he trained himself to climb faster and jump farther than anyone else.
This climb was like many he’d made before, he told himself. It didn’t matter what was up top-hanging on and not looking down were all it would really take.
The wall of Castle Hill leaned away from him, so instead of a sheer surface it was like a very steep slope. Only a few of the bricks had crumbled with time, though many were cracked. It was not so hard a climb, or rather, it would not have been, if it weren’t so long. Taking his time, choosing every handhold carefully, pausing now and again to rest, all kept Malden from falling, but nothing could keep the cramp out of his fingers forever. He looked always for features of the wall to aid him, and found a few. Here and there a dripping pipe emerged from the bricks. On occasion he passed a narrow window, wider than an arrow slit but never so big he could have fit through. These allowed him good spots to stand and massage his hands, to ready them for further climbing. Such spots were far apart and few in number, but they helped. They even gave him a chance to free his hands long enough to take a drink of wine from the flask he kept on his belt.
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