Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  The statue of the Bloodgod, of course.

  The Burgrave was known to be a devout of the Lady of Abundance. Sadu was a much older god, one whose worship was not officially forbidden in the Free City but certainly frowned upon. The Bloodgod was the patron deity of the poor and the oppressed, a symbol of ultimate justice and even vindictive revenge. Sadu punished all men alike in the afterlife, and each according to his sins. He was hardly the sort of god a man like the Burgrave would ever want to meet.

  The Bloodgod did have eight arms, though, and that leant itself to the obvious purpose of this particular idol.

  The bronze statue depicted Sadu in the typical fashion, as he was worshipped in tiny shrines all over the city. The idol had seven arms on the left side of its body, each holding a different weapon: a sword, a falchion, a spear, a trident, a net, a flail, and an arrow. Different images of the Bloodgod always had different weapons in his hands, since Sadu was the master of them all. On the right side he had only one arm, holding an ornate crown, as it always did. Sadu’s face was depicted as that of a snarling demon with massive tusklike teeth and wide, staring eyes. Malden had seen more terrifying versions, though this was a common depiction. Yet as he examined the statue quite carefully he noticed two things that were unique to this image in all his experience.

  For one, the eyes were not just open—they had been hollowed out. Two sharp points of metal glinted from within their depths. Malden thought of the needles that sprang from Cutbill’s lock. Perhaps these were the same—or worse, tiny darts that would fly through the air to poison him if they pierced his flesh. And of course this time the poison would be fatal.

  The second thing he noticed was that all eight arms of the Bloodgod were attached to the body by stout hinges. One could move them, if one desired, independently from the rest of the statue.

  Clearly he would have to push the correct arm to open the way to the tower room, while pushing any other would result in instant death.

  He rejected the crown arm immediately. It was far too obvious.

  Of the weapon arms, the net appealed to him first. It was the least deadly of the weapons, while the others could all kill you easily. The arrow was a bit confusing—it really should have been a bow Sadu held, should it not? But the arrow was also very similar to the darts hidden in the eyes.

  Yet wouldn’t that appeal to some dwarf artificer’s twisted sense of irony? Perhaps you pushed the arrow arm to say you did not wish the darts to fire.

  It was a gamble, but it seemed most likely. Malden stood well back of the statue, but still within the circular seam on the floor, and reached over to tap at the arm that held the arrow. Nothing happened. He applied more pressure, bending the arm backward.

  There was a rumbling of massive gears, a shrieking of poorly oiled metal—and then the whole wall swung on its axis, propelling him directly into the tower room. The place where the Burgrave kept his crown when he wasn’t wearing it.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’re—You’re mad,” Malden had said two days before, when Cythera finally revealed what she was after. “The crown of the Burgrave? What possible reason could you have to steal that? Why would anyone? If I’m caught with it, I’d be drawn and quartered!”

  “You needn’t be caught, if you stick to our plan,” Cythera said. Though he could see in her eyes that she knew no plan was ever perfect, that events could always conspire to catch a thief. She was asking him to take an enormous risk.

  “But—why? It’s made of gold, to be sure, but it’s only so big. Melted down, it isn’t worth a tenth of what you’re paying. And you would have to melt it down. No fence would ever touch it. If you so much as showed it to a fence, they would have no choice but to call in the watch.”

  “We have our reasons for wanting it. Intact,” Cythera said.

  “As soon as it goes missing, every watchman in the city will come looking for it.” Malden shook his head. “They’ll tear down the Stink looking for it, and for me. I don’t—”

  “No, they won’t,” Bikker said. He’d been standing by the fire, staring down into the flames. They danced in his eyes like light from the Bloodgod’s pit. He came clanking over to where Malden sat and loomed over him, his face split by a grin. “That’s the best part. As you say, there’s not much to the crown on its own. A good goldsmith can make a replacement in a day. If the Burgrave appears in public without the crown even once, he’ll look a fool. Everyone will ask where it is, and what will he say? That he just forgot to put it on that morning?”

  Malden had to admit he had never seen the Burgrave without it.

  “That’s the heart of the plan,” Bikker said, thumping the back of Malden’s chair so he nearly fell out of it. “Do you see? He and his advisors will be too embarrassed by its absence to say a word. They won’t call out the watch—they’ll keep this a secret, from everyone they can. They will never let it be known, anywhere, that the crown was ever stolen. They won’t even dare to come looking for it, because then they’d have to tell the watch what to look for. Do you really believe every watchman in the city would keep such a thing secret? No, the bailiff and the Burgrave will just pretend it was never stolen. They’ll trot out a replacement, and that will be the end of it.”

  Bikker squatted down in front of Malden and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. Just hard enough to leave marks. “So what do you say?” he asked, his eyes bright. “Are you the man for this job?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The crown—technically a coronet—was not a work of great art in itself. It was a plain circlet of gold, crenellated in the same pattern as the Free City’s walls. No jewels adorned it, nor was it lined in fur, nor was anything engraved upon it. It was the crown of a leader of free men, not a king who ruled serfs, and so it was not meant to glorify unduly its wearer or set him apart from the common weal.

  Honestly, to Malden it looked a little cheap. Even the head of the fuller’s guild wore more ceremonial gold than was in the city’s coronet.

  But of course the crown had far more symbolic value. It could only be worn by a Burgrave. It was the symbol of his lordship, the image of his right to rule the city as he pleased. It was what separated him from the citizens, what imbued him with all of his power. The Burgrave wore it every time he went out in public—when he led civic processions, when he sat to watch a tourney, when he handed down judgments in the law courts. He’d worn it the day Malden saw him in Market Square, the day he’d condemned that blond fool to death. The crown was the Burgrave’s power.

  Malden was dimly aware in his untutored way that he lived in a kingdom called Skrae, that beyond the Free City’s walls there was a grand feudal system of nobility with, at its head, a single monarch who had granted the city its charter and appointed the Burgrave’s great-great-etcetera-grandfather to be the city’s ultimate ruler. He had never paid taxes to that particular king, and had certainly never seen him. Even the portrait stamped on the larger denominations of money in the Free City was not that of the king, but of one of said king’s distant ancestors. Inside the city’s walls, the Burgrave was the only power that mattered, and Malden didn’t care a jot for anything outside them.

  The Burgrave ruled by the authority invested in the crown. A thief who could take the crown away would be sending a message: that the Burgrave’s authority was not sacrosanct. That in Ness, in the so-called Free City, every man was vulnerable and no man was truly better—superior—to another.

  Malden kind of liked that idea. He’d grown up the son of a whore, a man with no status whatsoever. A man who wasn’t even respectable enough to clean the Burgrave’s privy. That he could strike such a blow was a great triumph for the equality of men. It would be justice, of a sort. Of course, no one could ever know that he had achieved the theft, more’s the pity.

  As for the Burgrave, how much would he pay to keep its theft a secret? Surely that was the point of this ridiculous scheme. To extort the Burgrave for as much as his position was worth. It was certainly a d
angerous plan, no matter what Bikker said, but still it seemed like it could be quite lucrative.

  Malden was now close enough to the crown to reach out and grab it. The tower room was almost empty. Its walls were lined with old campaign banners and tattered flags. Its floor was strewn with sand that ground noisily under his feet. Of furniture, the room possessed a single piece, set exactly in its center: a simple stone pedestal, atop which sat a crystal bowl three feet in diameter.

  The bowl was full to its brim with clear water. Inside the bowl, magnified strangely by its curvature, was the crown—and something else.

  Cythera had given him one last piece of advice when they planned this theft together. “Such a treasure will always be guarded, of course. It cannot be left alone and unsupervised at any time. Yet I doubt you will find human guardians inside the chamber. Most likely it will be some variety of cursed beast or even a demon, bound to the defense of the crown. Such a creature will perhaps be the hardest obstacle you must overcome.”

  “Is this what you meant?” Malden asked now, whispering to himself as he watched the thing in the bowl squirm around in its tiny prison. It was a pulpy thing, with leprous skin and long boneless arms. It looked somewhat like an octopus, though it had no head that he could see, nor suckers on its tentacles. A particularly flexible starfish, perhaps.

  Malden could easily have held it in his hand. As he watched, it writhed its way through the crown, wrapping one oozing arm around the golden band. He supposed, if he were feeling especially fearful (and he was, after his near brush with the pit in the corridor outside), that the beast might possess deadly venom. Or teeth—somewhere—sharp enough to take his finger at the joint, should he be so foolish as to reach into the bowl with a bare hand.

  He had a better idea. He took the grappling hook from where it hung on his belt and paid out a few feet of rope. Then he dipped the hook into the bowl and fished for the crown. The spineless creature attacked the hook immediately, grasping at it with all of its legs at once, thrashing so hard at this intruder that it caused the bowl to rock back and forth on its pedestal. Malden tried to pull the hook free but the little monster’s grip was strong as steel. Struggling against it merely aggravated the bowl’s swaying motion.

  “Release, you tiny bastard,” he grunted, and yanked the hook free of its assailant. It came clear—but not without knocking the bowl completely off its perch. It fell from the far side of the pedestal and crashed upon the sandy floor with a noise so enormous that Malden was certain it must have alerted half the guards on Castle Hill.

  He held his breath. He closed his eyes to try to hear better. No shout came to his ears, however, nor any sound of men rushing toward the tower. When he was certain it was safe, he opened his eyes and stepped around the pedestal to retrieve the crown.

  The tentacle creature still had it, however, gripped in one unsolid arm. It flopped impotently on the floor in the wreckage of its bowl and a puddle of water that was already soaking into the sand. It was strange—but had the thing not looked smaller when it was in the bowl? Now it was larger than the crown it held, whereas before it had appeared smaller.

  No matter. Malden drew his bodkin from its sheath. He did not wish to have it sting or bite him, so he supposed he would have to just kill it and take its prize by force. Not the way he normally chose to operate, but—

  It was definitely bigger. Even as he watched, it seemed to swell. It was hard to say for certain with such an amorphous blob of a creature, but he was certain it was as big now as a dog. One of its flailing arms brushed across his shoe and he jumped back. It was like a sponge, which grows when full of water, Malden thought. With every squirming undulation of its being, it seemed to expand in size. Its arms were long enough to grasp the top of the pedestal, now. To grab Malden’s belt if he wasn’t careful.

  He stepped quickly around it, looking for something to stab. It had no head, nor any eyes, nor even a body in the proper sense. It was more like a clutch of snakes all tied together in knots than a singular being. He took a swipe at one of its arms and connected but did it no injury—its flesh was rubbery and shied away from the point of his bodkin without so much as a scratch appearing on its mottled skin.

  Not like a sponge placed in water, he realized, but the opposite. Water kept the foul thing in a manageable size, hence the crystal bowl. When it was exposed to air instead, it swelled—and the larger it got, the faster it seemed to grow.

  It was as big as a horse suddenly. Much bigger than himself. Its arms smashed across his shoulder, his knee, his face. Battered and confused, Malden staggered backward, back against one wall.

  The thing grabbed him around the waist and squeezed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bile rushed up Malden’s throat and his head swam. The breath exploded out of him and he nearly let go of his bodkin. The demon’s arm throbbed around his midsection and constricted his guts until he thought for sure he would be pinched in half.

  Then it picked him up off the floor and slammed him against the ceiling of the tower room. His vision went black for a moment and when he came to his ears were ringing like bells.

  It had grown still larger, until it nearly filled the room. Its myriad arms waved limply in the air and slapped against the stone walls. One of its arms still held the crown, gripped carefully in a thin twist of flesh. It held the thing well clear of Malden’s reach, even if he’d had the presence of mind to make a grab for it.

  Malden stabbed wildly around him with the bodkin, but even when his knife struck true it merely sank into the pulpy flesh, then came out again without leaving so much as a mark on the creature’s arms. The thing was sickeningly fluid, barely solid enough to keep a form, it seemed. Yet where it held him, its muscles were like ropes of steel. The thing was . . . unnatural. Unworldly.

  Now Malden understood why the room was guarded by a statue of the Bloodgod. This was no natural beast. It must be a very demon, loosed from out of Sadu’s pit of souls. It did not belong in the world of light and air. Whatever sorcerer had summoned it from its natural environment must have understood that. He or she must have known that it would grow, and continue to grow, when exposed to air. They had placed it in the crystal bowl of water to keep its size small. If he could submerge it again in water, perhaps it would shrink once more and—

  It thrust him against the walls again and again, trying to batter him to death. For a while he could not think or even see clearly as he was lashed against the flags and banners that lined the walls of the tower room. Pennons and standards crashed to the floor as his body knocked them free of their pegs. His left shoulder struck the stone wall hard and went instantly numb, and he could barely feel his legs.

  Water—there must be some water—somewhere—

  He could hardly think straight. He could hardly think at all. There had been water in the bowl, but it soaked into the sand that covered the floor. That must be what the sand was there for. The river was nearby, if he could somehow trick the beast into climbing over the wall and falling into the canyon beyond—but how he would manage that when he could not free himself from its grip was past his imagining.

  Water! He must have it! He—

  He had no water. But he had wine. The flask at his belt was still half full. Would it have the same effect on the creature? He could not be sure.

  The beast had grown still larger. It filled the tower room entire now, and was crushing him against the walls with its bulk. As it waved its arms around, it smashed the stones to powder—its arms were as thick around as tree trunks now. Would it keep growing, would it grow so large it burst the walls of the tower? Would that be enough to kill it, when the upper stories of the tower collapsed upon it?

  Malden doubted it. But he was certain of one thing—he, himself, would never survive such a collapse.

  There was no more time for thinking. He reached around the tentacle at his waist and grabbed the flask of wine. It was leather sewn together with gut, the seams worked with wax to make them waterproo
f. It sloshed as he lifted it up to see it. When he bought the thing, he’d chosen shrewdly, picking a vessel that wouldn’t leak, that would stand up to rough treatment. Now he cursed himself that he hadn’t just bought some cheap skin he could burst with one hand. The damned flask was too sturdy. He brought his bodkin around and stabbed it. Wine squirted out of the hole he’d made and red drops ran down the back of his hand.

  One drop fell onto the beast’s skin. The arm that held him pulsed wildly and he was thrown hither and yon, but the grip around his waist eased a trifle. Yes! The wine had some effect on the thing. He held the flask toward the tentacle and squeezed it as hard as he could, spraying wine all over its pulpy flesh.

  Suddenly, blood rushed down into his legs and they burned with new sensation. His guts relaxed inside his abdomen and he belched as his stomach nearly loosed its contents. He squeezed the flask again and he was free, flying through the air as if the demon had thrown him like a ball.

  The wall of the tower came toward him very fast, and he nearly crashed into it head first. He threw his arms up in front of him and managed to catch the wall with his sore fingers and then cling there like a spider before he fell back into the demon’s arms.

  Below him the beast thrashed like a mad thing, bashing against the walls convulsively. Stone crumbled and shattered and pulverized. A wide crack opened in the wall and then a whole section of the tower’s stonework fell away, letting in a rush of cold night air.

  The tentacles snapped at Malden’s ankles and back, trying to get a grip, but they were slow and he was able to avoid being grabbed up once again. The main problem he faced was that the beast had grown so large there was precious little room in the tower it didn’t fill, little enough that Malden had to press himself against the wall to keep from being crushed by its sheer bulk.

  More of the wall fell away. The tower above began to groan as its timbers shifted, no longer able to support the weight. The tower that stood for so many centuries, that seemed eternal, now lurched and swayed like a ship in a gale. In a moment the room would collapse and he would be crushed. He had escaped one gruesome fate only to befall another, it seemed. And yet—perhaps—