Light sprang up around her, interrupting her thoughts. She felt her stomach slide sideways while the rest of her shot upward into the air, straight through the ceiling, and suddenly she was standing in Hazoth’s inner sanctum, the tray still clutched in her hands.
She did her best not to gasp. It would cost her if she flinched or showed any weakness in his presence. Still, it was always surprising when he transported her like that.
Normally, magic did not affect her at all. The charm on her skin kept her safe from all enchantments and dweomers. Hazoth had explained, however, that the displacement spell he used to move her around his villa did not, in fact, work on her. It moved space around her instead, shifting the villa through various dimensions without ever touching her directly. It was one of his favorite tricks, probably because it disoriented her so.
She found herself standing before the rose window, red and blue light streaming across her face. The pattern of glass was a hex of considerable power—it was very good at shielding the sanctum from magical viewing. Cythera had always found it beautiful in its own right, at least until recently.
She allowed herself a momentary glance to the side. She moved only her eyes, and just enough to get a glimpse of the wretched form in the magic circle. Her mother did not lift her head. If Coruth was aware of her presence at all, she made no outward sign. Cythera could only hope that the witch had some other, more subtle sense that let her hear her thoughts.
Help is coming, Cythera whispered in her mind. Croy will not fail us.
She received no reply.
“Well, don’t let it get cold, girl,” Hazoth said, behind her.
Cythera turned and forced a smile. Hazoth liked her to be cheerful when she served him. It was difficult to keep her composure when she saw what he was doing, though. On a long worktable he had the body of a minor demon pinned down and cut open. It was little more than an imp, a long-legged batrachian thing with eyes like fire opals. Hazoth had his arms up to the elbows in its viscera. When the imp turned its head to the side to look at her, she nearly dropped the tray.
The demon made a horrible gurgling noise. Cythera forced herself to ignore its obvious suffering.
“It screamed like a natural thing before I disconnected its larynx,” Hazoth assured her as she set the tray down on a nearby table, pushing aside a number of arcane instruments to make room. “This is going to take all night. I didn’t wish to be distracted by coming down to the dining room, so I decided to sup here.”
Cythera did not reply.
“Strange. There’s no digestive apparatus at all,” Hazoth mused as he pulled his hands free of the vivisection. “They devour their prey, everyone knows that, but they can’t draw sustenance from it. Unless they persist simply on the suffering and fear of their victims.”
Cythera often wondered if the same could be said of her master. She stood by, motionless, waiting to see if he required anything else.
Hazoth came over to the tray and stared down at it. Then he glanced at his hands, which were still coated in ichor. “Hmm,” he said, “I really ought to wash. No time, though.” Sneering at the slimy mess, he spoke a word that curdled in the air. Blue flames licked over his wrists and palms, consuming the gore that had coated them. Cythera did not even wince as she felt new vines and flowers blooming in the small of her back.
She watched in silence as Hazoth grabbed up the haunch and started chewing on it. She had a linen napkin tucked up the sleeve of her gown, and she removed it carefully in case he should require it.
“Oh, since you’re here—there’s something I’m sure you’ll want to know. My little trick with the book failed. That rodentine thief of yours is still alive. You know, I’m almost glad. I admit I find him more amusing by the day. Maybe we’ll have to bring him here and give him a job after all, hmm?”
It was not a question that required an answer. Cythera held her tongue.
“Of course, it’s no great surprise he survived. We already knew he had an animal’s uncanny sense for danger. After all, he knew better than to kiss you, didn’t he? I really thought I had him there. What man could resist your charms, if he didn’t know what the price would be? Perhaps you warned him, though. Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough. Even though we both know you wanted to kiss him.”
Cythera kept her eyes focused straight ahead. She did not allow her cheeks to flush, did not permit herself the slightest reaction. Hazoth only spoke to her like this when he was bored. It was a little game. An amusement. He would say something provocative—perhaps hint at some dark secret relating to her mother, or tell her a story of some perverse sexual encounter he’d had four hundred years ago. If she gasped or even so much as shuddered, he would crow and caper. And then he would punish her.
He had so many different ways to punish her.
“I could tell, when I saw the two of you together. I could hear your heart beating faster. The smell of your breath changed. You want him. You want the little thief to be your plaything, don’t you, Cythera? Hmm? I asked you a question, girl.”
“As you wish, master. If you wish for me to desire him, then I shall.”
Hazoth laughed. “You can’t hide it from me. I could taste it in the air, the change that came over you. You were concerned for him. Afraid of what I would do to him. Just ask me, girl, and I’ll bring him here. I’ll put a charm on him that will drag him straight to your bedchamber.” He tore off a strip of venison with his teeth and chewed noisily. “I’ll make him kneel before you. I’ll make him burn for you. Just a word, and that can be yours. Of course, you’ll destroy him the moment he paws at you with his coarse hands. One rough touch and he’ll be torn to pieces. But maybe that would give you pleasure, hmm? Would that make you sigh? Would it make you moan?”
“I serve at your pleasure, master. Not my own.”
Hazoth stared at her with his perfect, clear eyes. She knew he was trying to look into her heart, to winkle out her secrets. The charm on her skin made that impossible, but he still tried from time to time. He took an interest in her, certainly. After all, she was all that stood between him and a series of gruesome deaths.
“I think perhaps I’ll summon your Sir Croy instead. That jumped-up man-at-arms needs to be taught a lesson one of these days. I think I’ll bring him here right now. And then you’ll tell him. You’ll list all the things you dream of doing with the thief. Sir Croy will have to stand here and listen while you describe all your filthy longings. How does that sound? Do you think he loves you enough to listen to that and forget everything he’s heard? Do you think he’d still love you as much after he heard those secrets?”
“If it would amuse you, master—”
He clucked his tongue in distaste. That was the worst part of the game. Even if she did maintain her composure, even if she swallowed her bile and kept her thoughts to herself, it simply angered him.
Sometimes that was worse.
“I could bring them both here, if you liked. I could bring them both to this room, right now, and make them fight over you. I could make them tear each other apart with their bare hands. Would you like that? Would it excite you, child, to see them struggle for your affections? Well? Would it?”
Cythera couldn’t help herself. A small sound started deep in her throat, a tiny whimper. When it came out of her mouth it was so soft she thought it must be lost in the noise of Hazoth’s chewing.
She was wrong.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and dropped the haunch back on the platter. He wiped his fingers on his robe and came to stand behind her, his meaty breath hot on her ear. “I got through, at last,” he whispered. “Both of them, no less! You care for them both!” He nearly giggled in his excitement. “Oh, Cythera, my dear, you’ll stretch your heart too thin! I’ll summon them both and make them both lust for you, shall I? Make them compete over who gets to deflower you first. Oh, I can see in your eyes how much you don’t want that.”
“I want nothing but—but—” she stammered.
He w
aved a greasy hand in dismissal. “Never you mind, Cythera. In point of fact, there’s no need to do any of that. In a few days it will be Ladymas. In the confusion of that day, Bikker will hunt them both down and butcher them while the watch is preoccupied.”
“Of course, master,” she managed. She had regained her composure once she knew he wouldn’t follow up on his threats. “May I go now?”
“I suppose,” Hazoth said. “I should really return to my studies.”
“Thank you, Magus,” Cythera said. She waited for him to transport her back to the preparatory.
He began to make the necessary passes in the air with his hands—but then stopped without warning.
It seemed he had one more thing to say.
“I know you hate me, girl,” he muttered. “I know you’re plotting against me. I know you think Sir Croy is going to come here and save you and your mother. But it’s hopeless, Cythera. No one can help you now. You’re mine, and always will be.”
“I—I—”
“I think you need to be reminded of this simple fact.”
In the end, there was never any way to avoid the punishments.
Chapter Fifty-One
There were many eyes watching Hazoth’s villa the next day, when Anselm Vry sent his watchmen in to take the crown back. It was an overcast morning, with a light drizzle falling from time to time. For Malden and Kemper, who watched from the north end of the common, it was a miserable way to spend their hours. They had intended to spend the day studying what could be seen of the villa from afar. When the watchmen arrived, however, they hid themselves in the bushes hard by Ladypark and kept out of sight as best they could.
Kemper shuffled endlessly through his precious cards, reestablishing the bond he had with them that let him hold them when another deck would fall through his hands. Malden had nothing to do but sit and hold the collar of his cloak tight against his neck, trying to keep the chill rain from running down his back. Yet he would not have moved from the spot. Though he could not know for certain, he believed he knew exactly what the watchmen had come for. Somehow, it seemed, Vry had learned where the crown was—and that could be a very bad thing. If Vry found the crown now, if Hazoth allowed it to be taken, it would be the end of all his—and Cutbill’s—schemes. It would mean death for both of them.
Meanwhile, Croy watched from the house of his wealthy friend, in comfort, with a flagon of wine and a loaf of bread for breakfast. This could be the day he finally freed Cythera from her bonds, he thought. If Vry was successful and found the crown, it would be the end of Hazoth. Cythera and her mother would be freed of Hazoth’s enslavement and they could go anywhere they liked. Croy could take Cythera away from him, he could marry her and bring her to his castle. Everything could turn out right.
As for Cythera herself, she watched from inside the villa and perhaps had the best view. Certainly she had the most to gain from this. Hazoth’s punishment of the night before had been cruel, and she ached for the sorcerer’s comeuppance. She very dearly wished she could just watch and see it play out. However, she was forced to pay attention to her regular duties—seeing to the needs of the villa, arranging for foodstuffs to be delivered, sheets to be changed and washed, silver coins handed out to all Hazoth’s retainers and servants, so she was often away from the windows. She did not know what to think, or what this raid could mean. She dared not hope for too much.
None of them would leave—or breathe easily—until it was done.
It seemed to take forever for the watchmen to gather at the southern end of the Ladypark. First came their serjeant, a big fellow in a cloak-of-eyes with a red hem. He brought two porters who set up a tent where he could sit in relatively dry comfort. Next his men arrived, four of them, carrying halberds and watching the sky with doubtful looks. There was a great deal of discussion between the four and their officer, none of it particularly heated.
Only four, Croy mused. Four against a sorcerer. What was Vry thinking?
When the time for discussion was done, the men each took a cup of ale. They leaned on the hafts of their weapons and drank their ration in silence. When the cups were empty, they left the tent and walked across the common. Their boots kicked up crystalline spray from the swampy grass as they marched toward the villa. The serjeant remained in his tent, where it was dry.
“Now ye’ll see somewhat, lad,” Kemper said with a wicked grin. “This oughta be a bloodbath, and no foolin’.”
“You think Hazoth won’t even let them in,” Malden said.
“More fool if’n he does, eh?” Kemper laughed. “Ooh, it’s gonna be good. After what they did t’me, strappin’ me up in that donjon. I can still feel the silver bitin’ into me wrists an’ ankles. Let’s see how them cloaks-of-eyes like it, bein’ hoisted in the air. Ooh, it’s lovely.”
Malden could not share the card sharp’s vindictive glee. He wasn’t sure how this would play out, but he knew if Hazoth killed the watchmen, or even if he just refused them entry to his house, it would only mean more trouble. Vry couldn’t leave it at that—he would have to send more watchmen, and more after that, until every armed man in the city was standing outside Hazoth’s gate demanding to be let in. That could hardly end well for anyone involved, and it would make it impossible for him to get in and steal the crown back. He didn’t know what he should hope for now. He could only watch, and pray for the best.
The four watchmen reached the gate of the villa just before noontime—though only Cythera was aware of the correct time. Hazoth had a mechanical clock on the second floor landing of the villa. Its persistent ticking had always soothed her before, the way it cut the day up into tiny portions, making her hours of bondage easier to digest. Now each tick and each tock were blows against her senses, as all her hopes depended on this next hour.
The watchmen stopped just outside the gate. One of them hallooed the guards and demanded entry in the name of the Burgrave. Cythera alone could hear the response—and alone was astonished by it.
“Well met, fellows. The Magus bids you enter and be welcome,” the guard said. He turned and made a signal toward the rose window at the top of the house, and the magical barrier came down, the wet air itself seeming to sigh in relief.
The watchmen filed through the portico and into the great hall. Up on the gallery, Cythera was busy counting the silver—an important job in a sorcerer’s house, since any spoon Hazoth ate with could be used against him by a rival wizard. She bent over the cutlery in case anyone (human or invisible) was watching, but listened close to what was said below her.
“I have an official message from the bailiff, which I must present to you, milord,” one of the watchmen said. “Then we must ask to search your house.”
Hazoth did not sound particularly worried. “Very good, let me hear it.”
“It is as follows,” the watchman said. He had not been carrying a scroll—most likely he’d memorized the message so he could recite it now.
“Greetings to our good friend Hazoth, much beloved of the Burgrave and of the king his liege. It is with heavy heart that I, Anselm Vry, must send you this deputation today. Certain evidence has been advanced concerning the theft of an item the Burgrave considers the most valuable of all his possessions. This evidence tends to suggest that the item in question may currently be found within the bounds of your property. Under common law I am empowering these men to search the house, outbuildings, and lands of your villa, with all care being taken to minimize the disturbance, and especially any damage, to said property. Your cooperation in this search, my dear Hazoth, will be most gratefully received. Should said item be found upon your land or property, or on your person, or in any way concealed or possessed by your esteemed self, this deputation shall have the power to remove it to safety, and at that time, but not before, criminal charges may be brought against you or any agent in your employ found to have any part in the theft, movement, or concealment of said item. Signed, your servant, Anselm Vry, Bailiff of the Free City of Ness.”
&nbs
p; The watchman cleared his throat. Apparently he had finished his message.
“I don’t see nothin’,” Kemper said, sounding annoyed as he peered out through the rain at the distant villa. “No flashes o’ light, no hellish smoke boilin’ from the windows. No fiery hands clutchin’ at the watchmen or demons comin’ up through cracks in the soil. You think maybe he just magicked ’em straight into the pit?”
Cythera stepped over to the railing of the gallery and looked down on the scene—watchers be damned.
Croy held his breath.
“Very well,” Hazoth said. He lifted one hand and gestured toward the stairs. “Would you like to begin your search in my chambers, or down here in the public areas of the house? And may I offer you something to drink or eat?”
The watchmen looked embarrassed. “We’re under orders, Magus, not to take aught from you, not even a cup of small beer, as it might be cursed. Not, uh, not that we would think you would do such a thing.”
“Perish the thought,” Hazoth said.
“If you’ll just stand aside we’ll get to things, and leave you in peace as quick as we can.”
“Certainly,” Hazoth said, and stepped away from the stairs.
The search took much of the afternoon. Cythera was required to assist the watchmen—she held the keys to all the locked rooms, and could open some of the magically sealed doors and cupboards for them. The watchmen seemed surprised by some of the house’s more unusual furniture, but never said a word, even when a book in the library jumped off the shelf and fluttered like a fish out of water at their feet. It tried to follow the watchmen as they backed out of the library, as if begging them to take it with them and free it from Hazoth’s villa. Cythera knew what the book contained and didn’t blame it. Still, she bent to retrieve it, and running one calming thumb along its spine, slotted it back in its place on the shelf.
Den of Thieves Page 24
