Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  On the floor, Sir Croy rolled over on his side with a moan. The hilts of his two swords stuck up at bad angles from his back. Sweat sheened his face and blood stained his clothes. He wasn’t going to wake anytime soon.

  “I didn’t have to cut you in at all,” Tyron went on. “I could have just waited till he slept, then taken everything for myself. We do this together, and then maybe you’ll speak the right word in the right ear. Maybe I find myself in a new position, ha ha.”

  Malden knew what the man meant—his measure was already taken. Before agreeing to come with Tyron into the Smoke, he had learned the man’s whole life story.

  Tyron was not one of Cutbill’s thieves. He was not really a thief at all, at least not all the time. Mostly he labored at a redsmith’s, working brass into latten with a cloth-covered hammer. It was not pleasant work and it paid barely anything, so Tyron was always happy to supplement his income with a quick bit of thuggery. Rolling drunks, short change confidence games, picking pockets when he could get away with it—any quick and dirty scheme to make an extra bit of coin. He was smart enough to have an arrangement with the tavern’s owner. That showed organizational skills—which had promise. He was just the sort of fellow Cutbill might take on as an apprentice, though it was unlikely he’d ever rise much higher. Tyron only knew he wanted the protection that Cutbill’s guild could bring him, and that alone had made him actually carry out Croy’s bidding.

  When Croy had asked Tyron to fetch Malden, Tyron knew enough to contact one of Cutbill’s agents. It might have gone no further, though, had Malden not been at Cutbill’s lair at the time, conferring with Slag the dwarf. He and Kemper had come at once, with Tyron leading them. No more than two hours had passed since Croy tasked Tyron with his message.

  Had it taken any longer, Croy might have been dead before they arrived.

  Malden knelt down next to the knight, who was moaning softly now. The swordsman’s face was fish-belly white. He must have lost a great deal of blood. It would be child’s play to kill him now, but Malden had something else in mind. He carefully opened Croy’s purse. He had a lighter touch that Tyron, though most likely it didn’t matter. Croy was feeling nothing but pain.

  “Here,” Malden said, taking out a mixed handful of silver and copper coins. Not a farthing in the bunch. He picked out ninepence and tossed them to Tyron. “There’s plenty more here, if you’ll do one more errand. Find me a physick. A discreet physick. Bring him here and you can have half this purse. Then you’re done—you leave and tell no one about this. There must be a dozen silver galleons here. Not bad for a half night’s work, is it? Cross me, however, and I’ll send my associate after you.”

  “Him?” Tyron said. “A beggarly card cheat? Why should I fear—”

  Kemper lunged at the thug and drove both hands deep into Tyron’s chest. Tyron opened his mouth to scream and a stream of icy vapor issued from his mouth.

  “Are we agreed?” Malden asked.

  They most certainly were.

  Tyron returned shortly, leading a man in a robe and a long conical paper mask. Malden peered through the holes in the mask and saw bleary eyes staring back. He paid Tyron and sent him on his way, with a promise to speak well of him to Cutbill.

  “You’re a trained physick?” Malden asked when Tyron was gone and he could speak plainly with the healer.

  “I am.” The man removed his mask—meant to protect him from the disease-ridden vapors of the Smoke—and rubbed at his face. He wore a pomander at his belt and stank of flowers and garlic. “I’m a doctor of physick, if you would know. Trained up at the university, under doctors Jacinth and Detwiler, and—”

  “Good enough,” Kemper said. “But can ye keep yer mouth shut?”

  The physick looked from Kemper back to Malden. “I’m usually employed by the workshops in this area. They pay me well to look after men hurt on the job. My employers prefer not to have suits of law brought against them—even in this place there are laws against negligence. So yes, I can be kept quiet. For the right price. Is this the man I’m to treat?” he asked, pointing at Croy.

  “D’ye see anyone else who needs ye?” Kemper demanded.

  “You might have moved him to a bed, if you cared about his health,” the physick replied. “For all I know you’re willing to let him die.” He dragged Croy up to a sitting position, then pried the knight’s mouth open to look at his tongue. He felt for Croy’s pulses and put an ear to his chest to listen to his wind. “Has he moved his bowels since he came here? Or passed any water?”

  “Ye want to see his piss?” Kemper asked. “What kind o’ sick fella are ye?”

  The physick clucked his tongue. “I don’t expect that your sort knows anything of medicine, nor shall I explain myself in detail. But the urine of a man is a great treasury of secrets, to those who know how to read it. I might find traces of extravagant humors in it. There might be blood in it, which would be a very bad sign indeed.”

  “Tell ye what, buy me a coupla drinks, I’ll give ye all the urine ye can stomach,” Kemper said with a cackle.

  The physick looked like he might jump up and leave on the moment. Malden rushed forward to put a hand on the man’s arm. “Forgive him. He’s little more than a peasant. Sure a man as worldly and learned as yourself can rise above such petty taunting?”

  “I assure you, my interest in his urine is purely professional!”

  “Of course it is,” Malden said, “and professionals,” he added, taking coins from his purse, “are paid for their services.”

  It was enough to make the physick return to his labors.

  While he worked, Malden stepped aside with Kemper and spoke quietly. “You don’t care for medicos, hmm?”

  “Oh, was I rude?” Kemper said with mock shame. “Nah, lad, I ne’er liked ’em, e’en back when I were reg’lar flesh. ’Specially not then. They’re more like t’kill ye than heal ye, if ye’ve anythin’ worse’n a bruise on yer li’l finger.”

  Malden shrugged. “True, but if we do nothing, Croy will die. I at least want a chance to talk to him before that. He had something to say to me, and I can’t afford not to hear it right now. We only have five more days before . . . before Ladymas. Croy is connected to what we’re doing, somehow. I’d like to know how.”

  “Aye,” Kemper said, looking almost contrite. “Yer in the right. Just don’t let that butcher near me.”

  Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn’t festered yet. I’ve bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He’ll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he’ll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he’s hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”

  “Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.

  “You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he’s to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days—well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”

  He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy’s silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people’s money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”

  “It is. Though let me warn you—I’m not the only one who’s going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.

  “Did you hear that, Croy? You’re an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight’s foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”

  Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Croy didn’t die in the night. He didn’t
wake up either.

  By mid-morning, with time growing short, Malden resorted to desperate measures. He filled a basin with water and then dumped it over Croy’s face. The knight sputtered and coughed and his eyes flicked open. One of his hands reached over his shoulder, looking for a sword that wasn’t there.

  The wounded man’s face hardened. He looked around the room, even sat up a little. “You moved me,” he said.

  “You’re safe. Or perhaps it’s better to say—no one knows where you are,” Malden told him. Croy was lying on Malden’s own bed, in his room above the waxchandler’s shop. “That’s a good thing, because right now Anselm Vry has his watchmen searching for you in every district of the city. It could become a bad thing, because none of your friends know where to find you. It’s up to you, Sir Knight, if you wish to leave this room again.”

  Croy nodded. He understood. “Who’s he?” he asked, looking across the room at Kemper, who was paring his fingernails with the silver edge of Croy’s unusual sword. He had trimmed his beard and his hair as well with the blade, for the first time since he’d been cursed. He’d never had access to a silver knife before.

  “A friend. My friend,” Malden said. “You needn’t concern yourself with that right now. You sent a messenger to find me last night. Luckily for you he did. I had a physick look at your wound. He said it will most likely be your death. When he was finished treating you, I brought you here, to get you out of the public eye. So you owe me something, Croy. First off, you owe me an answer. Why did you send for me, of all people in the Free City?”

  Croy pushed himself upright in the bed and put his feet down on the floor. Under Malden’s thin blanket he was naked. “Is it still raining out?”

  Malden sighed. He drew his bodkin and showed it to Croy.

  “You can do better than that rat-skinner,” the knight told him. “My shortsword should be around here somewhere. I assume you brought it when you moved me. It’ll make a cleaner cut, and kill me quicker.”

  “Smart talk, for one’s weak as a kitten just now,” Kemper said. “Ye’d be wise to just answer the question, m’lud.”

  Croy nodded. “You’re quite right, good sir. And I fully intend to do so, as soon as Malden stops threatening me with death. I have no fear of it now, so it’s hardly useful as a spur. I just wished to make that clear.”

  Malden sat down on the windowsill and sheathed his knife. He’d seen the way Croy moved when the water hit his face. For a man with a life-threatening wound, he was still fairly quick. He’d heard, too, of what Croy had done up at the castle. A man that dangerous wouldn’t go down easily. Perhaps it was time to stop threatening him and start getting actual information out of him, after all. “I’m sure there’s something you’re afraid of. If I need to, I’ll find it. But for now, very well.” He sketched a mock bow. “I won’t kill you until I have a reason. Tell me first how you even know my name.”

  Croy scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Cythera told me, of course. She told me that you stole the Burgrave’s crown and sold it to Hazoth. Ordinarily that would be a problem. I’m still technically the Burgrave’s vassal.”

  “He banished you to the kingdom of the dwarves. Then when you returned he tried to have you hanged.”

  Croy lifted his hands in resignation. “He never discharged me from his service. I swore an oath to defend him until my last breath.”

  “And you still intend to keep it?” Malden asked.

  The knight’s brow furrowed. “Yes, of course. How could I break that troth and still live with myself? I would die a thousand deaths before I dishonored myself.”

  Malden stared at the knight. Then he looked to Kemper, who seemed as uncertain as he was. “So you came looking for me—why? To bring me to justice? Did you expect me to turn myself in, to show contrition now that the theft is done?”

  “I thought you might know where Hazoth is keeping it. I thought you might know how I can recover it. If you stole something once, you might know how to steal it again.”

  Kemper started to speak, but Malden held up a hand for silence. He had no reason whatsoever to let Croy know that he was already bent on that very endeavor. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it would be to try? Can you think of any reason I would even consider the job you’re talking about?”

  “He’s askin’ how much yer payin’,” Kemper suggested.

  “I can’t give you any money,” Croy said. “But you would have the greatest of rewards—knowing you struck a blow for justice.” Malden started to laugh, but Croy stopped him by speaking again. “Cythera is a prisoner of the sorcerer Hazoth. As long as he possesses that crown, she will never be free.”

  “And what, exactly, should that mean to me?”

  Croy blinked. “Everything, of course. You’ve met her. You know she doesn’t deserve that fate. When last we met, Malden, I got the sense you cared for her in some way. If I was wrong I’ve slit my own throat, clearly. But I don’t think I was wrong.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Malden said. “You found yourself in the Smoke, all but dead, hunted by the entire city watch. You knew your only way of surviving was to get the crown back from Hazoth. So you sent for me, the thief who stole it, thinking I would help you simply because there’s a woman in peril who needs to be rescued.”

  “Yes,” Croy said, as if very glad that Malden finally understood.

  “What in the Bloodgod’s name are you?” Malden asked finally.

  “In the name of the Lady, I am an Ancient Blade,” Croy answered.

  As if that explained everything.

  Well . . . it did answer a few questions. Malden knew the story of the Ancient Blades, seven legendary warriors so called because they wielded sacred swords. Those swords had been made by human hands in a time so long ago the Free City of Ness wasn’t even a tower on a hill. The method of their creation was lost in time, but it was said even the dwarves could not create weapons of such power or with such keen edges.

  Kemper looked down at the bicolored sword in his hands. Then he carefully set it down on the floor.

  “That thing’s one of the blades? It doesn’t look like much,” Malden insisted.

  “None of them do. They weren’t forged as parade weapons. They were made to do one thing. To fight demons.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Kemper held the sword as far away from himself as possible.

  Malden understood his reticence. Looking at the blade, a strange feeling passed over him. What had been a simple weapon before had taken on new dimensions, now that he understood what it was made for. He remembered the way he’d felt while holding the magicked crown. The voice in his head had the power of command, the ability to rouse men to deeds of foolish valor and great sacrifice. The sword had no such enchantment on it, yet he could almost feel the power contained in its length.

  It was old, he knew. Older than he could imagine. It was a fragment of another time, a relic of when the old stories were all true. Malden disbelieved most of what he’d heard of Skrae’s ancient history, of the war against the elves, of the forests full of giants and goblins that preyed on the first human settlers. He had discounted such stories as fit only for children and the feeble-minded. Yet here was a thing that had featured in its own share of those stories, and its reality could not be questioned. It was cold metal, and a kind of magic.

  Suddenly all the stories seemed real. All those tales of brave knights wading into sorcerous peril, into the very maws of demons—they might actually be true. The seven blades, who stood alone against all the forces of the pit that would corrupt and defile the very world should they ever be set free.

  “Demons are rarely seen now,” Croy explained. “Thanks in no small part to the seven swords and the men who wielded them. We have almost wiped their kind from the face of the world—them, and the dread sorcerers who summon them here for nefarious purposes. There was a time, though, when they were thick upon the land. When they tore great swaths through Skrae, leaving destruction and madness
in their wake. In that time the Blades were created, and without them I have no doubt humanity would have perished. They are that important.

  “Any piece of iron,” he went on, “is capable of killing a man, or a dwarf, or even an ogre. It just takes a strong arm to wield it. Demons, however, are different. They are native to the pit, where the laws of nature do not apply. Even dwarven steel is little use against them. To make matters worse, this quality that makes them so strong—that they are counter to nature—also makes them horribly dangerous. They were not created to breathe our air, to trod our earth. When they are dragged up out of the pit, they blight the land that receives them. Their evil is like a disease upon the very fabric of reality.”

  “Fabric o’ what?” Kemper asked, but Malden hushed him.

  “Some will turn milk sour inside a cow’s udders if she so much as looks on them. Some wither crops wherever they pass. And some are capable of destroying our world, just by being here. The one that brought down the Burgrave’s tower—”

  “It was tiny,” Malden said, nodding, “until it was exposed to the air. Then it began to grow, and did not stop.”

  Croy frowned. “Had it been permitted to continue, it would have grown until it crushed the entire city under its weight. Even then it would not have stopped, until its tentacles could wrap around the world and crush it to rubble.”

  Malden felt the blood rush out of his face. He had released the thing from its watery prison. If it had not been checked . . .

  “Fortunately, Bikker and I were there to stop it.”

  Malden cried out. “That bastard’s an Ancient Blade, too?” he demanded.

  “Yes. He wields the sword called Acidtongue. Just as I wield Ghostcutter.”

  “Then you know him,” Malden said.