Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  It was rare that a woman of Cythera’s character was the object of a truly vile curse, though. When Croy had met her—back when he was still employed as the Burgrave’s bodyguard—there was only a single tendril of curling vine then, and that disappeared up her sleeve. She might have gone a lifetime without acquiring much more in the way of images, had she not needed money. Penniless, with no skills to earn her keep, nor the willingness to prostitute herself, she had found employment where she could.

  Hazoth had taken her into his service when she was still a girl. He made an amulet out of a lock of her hair, which extended the protection of her enchantment to himself. And a sorcerer like Hazoth attracted his fair share of curses—cast by his enemies, of which he had many. He compelled service from the demons of the pit. Such creatures liked not making such bargains, and once they were free of his influence, sent magic to destroy him, or to pull him down into the pit with them where they could torment him forever. Now Cythera bore the brunt of those curses. Since entering Hazoth’s service, her collection of tattoos had grown denser with each day.

  Cythera’s skin crawled with magic, far too much for her to safely contain. Magic never stood still—it was pure action, pure energy, and it hated being bound or constrained. Her skin could hold an enormous magical potential but it had its limit, and once that maximum had been reached, the magic constantly sought to be discharged. The slightest jar, the most well-meaning touch, could release that magic instantly. If Croy grasped her hand in a fit of passion, if he crushed her lips with his own—it would be his end.

  He had to admit it was going to make the wedding night complicated. But perhaps they could find a way to release her from her magical burden.

  “Come away with me,” he said. “Tonight. Get away from the villa and meet me. We’ll be on a ship, sailing for some pleasant southern beach before he even knows you’ve left him.”

  “You think it’s that simple?”

  “I think it can be, if we choose it.”

  She lowered her crust of bread to the table and looked at it very carefully, as if she could read the future there. Perhaps she could. “He would not allow it. I must be near him for our connection to work. He would grow wroth.”

  “Let him pout! What harm can he do us? He wouldn’t dare hurt you.”

  “It’s not myself I’m worried about,” she told him. She looked up into his eyes. Her own were untouched by magic images. They were clear and very honest, and brooked no falsehoods. “He has my mother under his thumb. Should he desire it, he could extinguish her life with a wave of one hand.” She reached toward his cheek but did not touch him, only mimed the gesture, her palm hovering a fraction of an inch above his skin. She’d had a long time to learn how not to touch other people. A very long time to live with no one touching her. “Oh, Croy. You should never have come back.”

  He stood up quickly from the table, scattering the crumbs of cheese he’d been toying with. “You said you needed to report in. That it would mean trouble if you were late.”

  “So I did,” she told him. She rose from the table and wrapped her cloak tightly around herself, furling it over her arms so her hands were safely inside the garment. “You can’t escort me any further, of course, or he’ll see us together.” She headed for the door, but turned before she slipped through it to take one last look at him. “Try to forget me. I’m lost, Croy.”

  “You’re enslaved. Which is exactly what your mother was trying to protect against when she enchanted you. Hazoth is precisely the kind of enemy she wanted to forestall. Yet now he uses her against you. You’ve been captured by him as easily as if he had used sorcery to compel you.” The words were harsher than he’d meant them to be. He had no right to speak to her like that, he thought, and shame burned in his cheeks.

  “It’s like I said,” she told him. “Not every trick he pulls is by magic.” And then she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It took Malden the better part of the day to scrub the shit out of his clothes. He couldn’t afford to hire a washerwoman, and he certainly didn’t want to answer any questions she might have had, so he did it himself down by the river Skrait, rubbing his cloak against smooth rocks until its color was almost back to normal and it didn’t stink. When the time came, he told himself—when he was in Cutbill’s firm employ, and able to earn for himself—he would never have to wash his own clothes again.

  Perhaps it would happen tonight.

  He had been very worried after leaving Castle Hill that he might be arrested at any moment. The torturer got a good look at his face, after all, and could have reported his description to the watch. So he had spent the predawn hours slinking from one darkened part of the city to the next, spying on every cloak-of-eyes he could find, watching them to see if they were alerted and searching for a thief. And they had been—a woman, in a velvet cloak, in a little boat. Cythera. They were looking for Cythera.

  Which perhaps explained why she had not been waiting for him when he left the pipe and unceremoniously fell into the filthy river. He supposed he could not blame her for fleeing once the guards spotted her. In the midst of the confusion in the palace above, they would be unlikely to listen to whatever story she spun for them. She could have ended up in the strap herself.

  He would just have to make contact with her or with Bikker somehow, and make proper arrangements for handing over the crown. Which might be difficult if they were being sought by the watch—most likely they would have gone to ground. Still, he possessed ways to find them the authorities lacked. It would just take a little digging.

  On his way back from the river he decided, though, that he could afford to rest and lie low for a day. He was exhausted from his nocturnal jaunt, and his hands ached and desperately needed to be idle for a while. He was also starving, as he hadn’t eaten since the day before.

  So he took his time heading home. Down in his part of the Stink, the river ran flat and wide through a district of fishermen’s homes, all built on stilts to weather the annual springtime flood. He climbed up a bank thick with salt grass, where coracles and punts lay overturned, the tar between their timbers softening in the sun. The fishermen sat in their boats, to keep them from being stolen, waiting for the tide to turn. In the meantime they laughed and joked amongst themselves as they repaired their nets with thick, scarred fingers. They eyed him warily but without comment. Surely it wasn’t the first time they’d seen a furtive figure, his clothes drenched with river water, come up the bank and slinking away in the early morning light. He hoped it happened often enough they wouldn’t remember him when he was gone.

  A short flight of stairs brought Malden up to the high street, where he bought a day-old loaf and three gulps of wine ladled out of a barrel. It was better fare than he often ate, but he was hungry enough to spend the extra coin. He picked apart the bread as he wended his way up the street, careful not to step in anything that might ruin his newly clean shoes. The houses here leaned over the roadway, their upper stories built out so far they were nearly touching. Even in the midday the shadows were thick under the eaves. He sat for a while on a horse trough to finish the meal, and watched the comings and goings of his neighbors.

  The people of the Stink dressed plainly, and few among them had clean faces—in fact, most bore the pockmarks of long-healed disease, or other signs of bad diet and unsanitary living. None of them could read or write, and by the age of twenty-five even the most comely of girls looked old and stooped.

  “ ’Ware below,” someone shouted from above his head, and a cobbler’s apprentice in the street had to dodge a cascade of garbage and filth poured out a second floor window. His leap sent him sprawling into a sawyer and they both went down in a heap, the woodchopper’s load of firewood spilling out onto the cobbles. The man pulled the boy’s ears for that, and demanded that he help pick up the wood, but the boy merely made a rude gesture and hurried on. Across the street a goodwife stepped out into her dooryard, her face flushed from the heat in her kitchen. She fan
ned herself with her apron for a moment, then hobbled back inside and back to her endless tasks. She had to work constantly to feed her family, and to have enough left over to sell so she and her husband could make the rent.

  These people were miserable, and their lives meant nothing. Malden had never felt like one of them, even if he lived among them. And yet he wondered, as he often did, what his life could have been had he tried to be an honest man.

  Not, of course, that he’d had much choice in the matter. The son of a whore—the bastard son of a whore—could never rise far. He had learned both letters and figures as a child, and kept the books for his mother’s house, but such skills were useless to one of his station. No merchant would ever have trusted him to add up accounts. By the time he’d left the brothel, he was too old to apprentice in any lucrative trade. He could have given himself over to unskilled labor, and broken his back unloading ships or carrying goods to market for farmers too poor to own a cart. He thought he would not have lasted long at that business, though. He would have turned to drink, to soothe his sore muscles, and wasted that tiny pittance of money he earned.

  He finished the last of his bread and got up again. He headed up a side street, a narrow, winding passage between two closes, piles of houses built around tiny, stinking courtyards full of livestock. He heard voices from all around him, snatches of conversation dripping from every window thrown open to catch a breath of air. Hundreds of people lived in the closes, pressed into a space the size of a rich man’s parlor. Some of the houses were six stories high. Imagine, he thought, to every day go down to the river to fetch water and bring it back up all those stairs. He saw in his mind’s eye an endless course of pails, sloshing and losing a bit of their contents with every step they climbed, a river of water moving up and down inside those tall houses every day. And every pail needed a poor blighter to carry it.

  He shook his head and hurried up the street. His own room was in the next block over, above a waxchandler’s shop. The shop turned out candles, whole barrels full of them every day made of beef tallow that stank when it burned or more expensive and reliable beeswax. His room stank always of paraffin, and the stairs leading to it were used to store extra spools of wicking and blocks of rancid tallow. Still, the room at the top of those stairs was warm all winter from the heat of the wax kettles underneath, and he didn’t have to share with anyone else. He headed up the exterior stairs to his door and lifted the latch, thinking only of his bed. It was a simple mattress stuffed with straw and sagging in a frame of ropes. He wondered if he would care enough to tighten them before he climbed inside. He wondered how long he would stay awake once his head touched the scratchy sheets.

  He hurried inside and closed the shutters. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept through an afternoon, wishing to be rested for the night to come. Yes, just a few hours with his head down and then—

  Thief. Hearken to me, thief.

  The damned crown!

  When he first touched it, it had spoken to him. During his escape from the dungeons it had mostly been quiet, but only because there was enough noise to drown out its voice. Now, when his room was still, when he was alone with his thoughts and his exhaustion, he could hear it whisper to him.

  It never stopped.

  Thief, I can help you. I can save you from all dangers. Simply listen to what I have to say. Thief! Listen to me!

  Malden stormed over to the middle of the room, where he’d hidden the crown beneath the loose floorboards. He stamped on the spot, hard enough he thought he might stave in the boards and ruin his hiding place. Like a man pounding on the floor to tell his downstairs neighbors they are too loud.

  I’ve seen what you desire, thief. And I can help you get it. I ask only one thing. Place me upon your head.

  His stomping was of no use. The damned thing would be quiet just long enough to let him crawl into his bed. Then, before he could even close his eyes, it would speak again, inside his head where he could not block it out.

  Thief, put me on. Place me on your head and I shall tell you secrets. Thief, I can tell you where treasure is buried. I can tell you how to make wealth out of thin air, how to acquire all the riches you desire. Thief! I can make you free!

  The thing had hardly stopped talking since he stole it.

  And much worse—he was starting to believe the things it said.

  All he had to do was put it on his head. All he had to do was wear it for just a moment and it would tell him anything he wanted to know. It would tell him why Bikker and Cythera wanted it so badly. It would teach him all the secrets of the Burgrave.

  And so much more, thief. I know the way to a woman’s heart. The witch’s daughter can be yours, thief. I can make her obey your every command. I can make her long for you until her body aches for your touch. Just put me on.

  The crown wouldn’t let him get a wink of sleep. Long before dark he surrendered. Not to its suggestions, of course, but to the fact that he would go out again, as tired as he was, and find Bikker or Cythera immediately.

  It couldn’t wait another hour.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Finding Bikker was easily enough done, for a man with the right connections.

  Malden headed across the city again, this time taking the bridge that ran high over the Skrait to the Royal Ditch. He kept clear of the Goshawk Road there—that place was only for the sons of rich men, idle and carrying too much coin for their own good. They would have been an attraction for a man with his deft fingers if not so well-guarded. At every corner of the Goshawk Road armed men lounged, looking out for people like Malden. The guards, employed by the gambling houses and upscale brothels of the Road, would take him down an alley and beat him senseless without bothering to ask any questions first.

  Besides, Malden’s destination was in a far more humble part of the Royal Ditch. A part of the city he knew very well. He should, since after all it was where he’d grown up. As he headed down Pokekirtle Lane, a few haggard whores leaned out of doorways to shout propositions at him, but he ignored them. Too drunk to recognize him, they let him pass without impugning his manhood too severely.

  Malden had to knock on the door of the Lemon Garden for ten minutes before he was answered—and then only from a window on the second story. Elody, the madam of the house, leaned out into the dusk, her shoulders barely covered by a frayed silk shawl. She clucked her tongue down at him. “Sorry, love, we’re not open yet. Come back after dark.”

  “Afraid a customer will see the pox sores on your rump if they aren’t hidden by darkness?” Malden asked.

  Elody’s painted face turned dark with anger—until he stepped back away from the door so she could see him. Then a wide grin split her face, showing her missing teeth. “Malden! It’s been ages!”

  It was true. It had been years since he’d returned to his childhood home.

  Elody slammed the door shut, and he heard her racing down the stairs to get the door. She must have alerted the others inside to his presence, because half a dozen girls were squeezed in the portal when it opened, all of them giggling and simpering for him. He favored them with a warm smile, and a dozen soft hands pulled him inside and shut the door after him. The older “girls,” some of whom had worked alongside his mother, tousled his hair and poked him in the ribs to see if he’d gained any weight. The younger doxies reached for other parts of him, only to have their hands slapped away by Elody.

  “He isn’t here for that,” she scolded, “you spavined sluts. Malden’s not a customer. He’s family. He could have girls younger and more talented than you for the price of asking but he never does.”

  “Maybe he just hasn’t tried someone his own size yet,” a slender girl said.

  “Or maybe he doesn’t like seafood,” one of the oldsters told her. “You might try washing it out after you use it all night.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like girls.”

  “You do like girls, don’t you, Malden?”

  “Don’t you like me?”
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br />   “Learn some manners!” Elody shrieked. “Mirain, fetch him some wine. Gerta—you get some pillows together, make him a pile to lie on. The rest of you go finish putting your faces on, it’s only an hour till we open. You don’t get paid for fawning over our boy! Malden, Malden, it’s good to clap eyes on you. How you’ve grown. Come in, come in!”

  Elody was a madam who knew more of hospitality than any ostler. After all, she’d been entertaining men all her life. She let him take her plump arm and directed him into the courtyard garden that gave the house its name. A single withered lemon tree swayed there over piles of freshly strewn rushes. It was here the tupenny whores entertained their clients—the penny trulls (called penny uprights, sometimes) never bothered to lie down. In the rooms above, which had curtains instead of doors, wealthier clients might be entertained by girls who advertised themselves as virgins (unlikely) or by their varied specialties, which ranged a wide gamut.

  Malden was led beneath the tree and provided with a bed of cushions and a cup of mulled wine. It wasn’t very good, but he pretended to sip at it to appease his hostess. She smiled and saw to his every need and asked a million little questions about his life since leaving this place that had once been his mother’s house. These questions he answered only vaguely, or with outright lies—Elody knew perfectly well how he earned his living, and wasn’t asking for real information anyway.