“Aye.”
“With a little luck—”
He stopped because Cythera was sitting on the sill of his open window.
“With a great deal of luck,” she said, “that plan will see you both killed very quickly. That way Hazoth won’t be able to torture you. He’s very good at that.”
It was midnight.
Four days left.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Milady,” Malden said, bowing low. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming, as—”
“Obsequiousness does not suit you, Malden,” Cythera said. She climbed down from the window and came over to the table where the maps lay. Malden noted that she didn’t even glance at Croy. “This plan doesn’t either. You’ve badly underestimated the villa’s defenses.”
Malden stepped back from the table and let her peruse the maps. After a moment she went to the unlit brazier in the corner (Malden used it only in the wintertime), took out a piece of charcoal and began to sketch in parts of the map that neither Malden nor Kemper had been able to draw.
“I take it you’ve decided to help us,” Malden said when she seemed to be done.
“What choice do I have? If I betray you now, for the sake of peace, I will only be delaying the inevitable. He’ll find some excuse to torture my mother regardless of what I do. No, her only hope is your foolish scheme. Which still won’t work.”
Malden looked down at the additions she’d made to the map. Mostly she had drawn in the rooms on the second floor, which did not concern him overmuch, but she’d added two walls on the third floor he had not known were there—and which would have caused him significant problems when he got inside.
“And . . . how is your mother, if I might ask?” Malden said. “Is she at least safe, for the nonce?”
“You could say that,” Cythera told him without looking up. “She turned herself into a tree.”
“A what, lass?” Kemper asked.
Cythera looked up then. She had never seen the intangible scoundrel before. Yet she did not demand to know who he was. “A tree. A rowan, of course.”
“Of . . . course,” Malden said.
“The rowan is sacred to witches and magicians. Its wood is the only proper material for magic wands, and its berries are a potent charm against sorcery. Coruth has not fruited yet, though. She is still a sapling, for she lacks the strength to increase her size through magic. At first I thought she had a cunning plan—that she would grow, as a tree, and eventually her branches would break through the roof of Hazoth’s house. In that way she might free herself in, say, fifty or one hundred years from now.”
“She expects to be prisoned that long?” Malden asked in surprise.
“She expects,” Cythera said, “to be held there forever. Hazoth does not age. As long as she is trapped in a magic circle, neither will she. He will never release her, of course—he draws power from holding her captive, for one thing. The demons he commands delight in her agonies, and make gifts of their magic to him in exchange. For another thing he knows that if she ever does free herself, her first order of business will be to annihilate him utterly.”
“Fer revenge,” Kemper said, nodding agreeably.
“For justice, call it.” Cythera turned to Malden. “It was just an hour ago that I realized another reason why she chose to make herself a tree. That was when I decided I would come here and aid you all I can.”
“Oh?” Malden asked.
“Cruel boys break the branches of trees all the time, but trees do not feel pain.”
“Ah.”
“Hark,” Cythera said, “I don’t have much time. Hazoth is closeted in his bedchamber but he will emerge before the third hour of the morning. I was able to confuse the guards enough they did not see me go, but I must be back before he calls for me. He always does after consorting with demons. He knows the smell of brimstone nauseates me, you see. He is most subtle in his tortures, is Hazoth.”
“You must hate him,” Malden said.
Cythera stared at him with burning eyes. As if he could not comprehend what she felt for the man. He supposed in many ways he couldn’t, so he looked away.
“One thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Forgive me, but—you have so much power bound up in your painted skin. Couldn’t you simply . . . I don’t know. Strike him? Grab him forcefully. Wouldn’t that be enough to destroy him? Surely that would satisfy justice.” And save me a great deal of trouble, too, Malden thought.
It was Cythera’s turn to avert her gaze. “Not all of his protections are magical,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But there is a simpler reason. The magical link he has with me would make such a gesture futile. I could release the curses I have stored up against him, yes. But the link would simply send them back to me.” She shook her head. “There’s no answer there. You must find another way.”
“I’ve been working on a plan,” he told her, and showed her the papers on the table. “You heard the gist of it, and said it would fail.”
“Yes. Look. Here,” she said, and pointed to the map. Her finger was aimed at the great hall on the first floor.
Malden knew exactly what she was pointing out. “The great iron sphere there, by the stairs. I wondered about it, but knew not what it might be.”
“It’s another power source for Hazoth’s wizardry. He has many, and I do not know them all.”
“But what is it? It’s made of iron. Doesn’t iron discomfit demons? I would hardly think they would put their power into such an object.”
“Cold-forged iron is their bane,” Cythera said. “Iron forged in great heat actually strengthens them. It is why normal iron weapons, and even more so, dwarven steel, don’t hurt them. This iron was formed in the heat of the pit itself. But it is not the iron that is magical. It is the pit-thing inside the iron.”
“There’s a demon in there?” Malden asked.
“Sure, an’ it’s like a magic circle, which’ll hold a fiend, aye, only this ’un’s in three d’mensions ’stead o’ two,” Kemper insisted.
Malden and Cythera both stared at him.
“D’you think me a simpleton?” Kemper asked, looking hurt. “Or mayhap you think me unversed in magics? D’you think one o’ my affliction wouldn’t learn a thing or two?”
“That’s Kemper. He’s cursed,” Malden explained to Cythera.
“And largely correct,” she said, shrugging off her surprise. “Yes, the iron is there to contain the demon. But not because Hazoth fears it getting loose. You see, the demon inside the iron sphere is an embryo, still. It has yet to be born. The iron sphere is not its prison, but its egg.”
“It’s like a babe in the womb?” Malden asked.
“Yes. But do not be fooled into thinking it weak or helpless. Demons are born fully formed and are quite dangerous the moment they are hatched. Otherwise they would never survive in the pit. Demons have no bonds of affection for one another, not like humans do. Even a mother’s love for a child is unknown among them. A she-demon will devour her own brood with glee if she gets the chance.”
“That’s horrible,” Malden said.
“It’s just how things are done there. The demons see it as natural. As a result, those demons born weak and mewling like human infants don’t live long. The ones that do survive are the ones born already strong. This demon is a perfect example. I’ve seen full-grown examples of its kind, and they are unstoppable slaughterers. The moment this one emerges from that egg it will be ready to hunt. Even before its proper time it will be a terrible thing to behold. I don’t know how close it is to being born, but I know it will be hungry, and it will be ready to kill. Hazoth can release it any time he chooses. If he detects you inside his house, even for an instant, he can force the creature to hatch—and to give chase. It will follow you to the ends of the earth, if it must, and devour you. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” Malden said. His hands were suddenly very cold—his blood had turned to ice.
“You won’t
be able to fight it. Its claws will be sharper than any steel you bring to bear. Its teeth will rend through solid stone. Even with an Ancient Blade in your possession—and I doubt Croy will just loan you Ghostcutter—you would never stand a chance against it in single combat, Malden. You won’t be able to hide from it either. It will be born blind, but with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. You could try to douse yourself in perfumes, or cross running water, or any of the stratagems that might drive a dog from your trail. None of them will work with this creature. Once it has your scent it will find you. And kill you.”
Malden went to the bed and sat down on its edge, careful not to disturb Croy. “What infernal pact did Hazoth make to contract such service?” he asked, because asking questions was much easier than contemplating what a newborn demon would do to his tender flesh once it had him. “Did he get this thing from torturing your mother?”
“No. He earned its service the oldest way. By siring it.”
“Hold, now,” Kemper said.
For the first time Croy sat up in the bed and spoke. “You can’t be saying that—”
Cythera looked down at the maps and met no one’s gaze. “You saw the chains in his bedchamber. I see you’ve even drawn them in here on your diagram. That is how he entertains his succubi. The demon in the egg was the fruit of one such union. It is his child. It is not his first.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
“But . . . why?” Malden asked. He thought of the mural of the succubus in the House of Sighs, and he supposed he could see why a man would find that attractive. Yet he was reasonably certain that mural had not been painted from life. And even if it was, it seemed Hazoth’s intent was not to take pleasure from his succubi, but a wholly different end. “Why would anyone . . . want to . . . Why?”
“You wonder what would make a man desire a demon child. You wonder why any human being could compass such a thing. You forget that Hazoth does not think of himself as a human being. He does not consider himself bound by conventional ethics.”
“I got that when I met him,” Malden agreed.
“A sorcerer like Hazoth lives only for power. He cares not for gold, or love, or any of the things that entice normal men. He wants to expand the scope of his knowledge, and to possess power that others cannot match. He’s already capable of things beyond your imagining. Yet for a very long time he’s felt like a prisoner.”
“Truly? But who could possibly compel him?”
“The Burgrave. And the king. There is a law against what Hazoth does, Malden. There is a penalty, if he’s caught, and it’s burning at the stake. Everything he does in the average day is probably illegal according to the laws of this land.” She looked over into the corner of the room, where Ghostcutter leaned against one wall. “The Ancient Blades exist to enforce that law.”
“Croy told me Hazoth lives in Ness because the Burgrave’s ancestor granted him a sort of safe haven here,” Malden pointed out.
“Exactly. Now he’s trapped here. If Hazoth left Ness he would be under constant suspicion. Croy and his brother knights keep a constant watch on any sorcerer who looks powerful enough to draw a demon up from the pit. They are never allowed a moment’s rest until they prove they are faithful to the law. Hazoth couldn’t live under that kind of watchful gaze. Eventually he would be caught summoning a demon or doing something else so infernal he would be arrested for it. He would be given a trial, but his sort are never very good at defending themselves in a court of law. He would be found guilty and sentenced to death. After so many centuries of life, to be caught by petty reeves and burned at the stake by peasants would seem utter injustice to him.”
“Yet why would he want to travel abroad when here, in Ness, he could live forever and be unmolested?” Malden asked.
“Can you imagine what it is like, to be called a free man, but only if you agree never to leave a certain place? Can you imagine the irony in that freedom, which requires you to remain always inside what must feel like a prison cell?”
Malden pursed his lips. He could imagine that exactly. He remembered when Cutbill had described his own situation in just the same terms. He had never wanted to feel sympathy for Hazoth. Nor did he now—at least not much—but he had to admit he could see Hazoth’s motivations.
“Once his demon child is born, it will protect him from such a fate. He can go where he pleases—do what mischief he pleases—and none can stop him.”
Malden stroked his chin. “Croy told me something else as well. About demons. How they’re unnatural, and how they distort reality around them. How their power will eventually wreck the world if they’re not stopped. There was one in the Burgrave’s tower that would have choked the world if it wasn’t checked.”
“This one is much the same, though its dangers are less obvious,” Cythera agreed. “Hazoth knows the risk he’s running. He just doesn’t care.”
“That is troubling,” Malden said.
“I meant it to be.”
“For right now, though . . . it’s also immaterial. You say that once the demon is born it will hound me to my death. Well, that just adds one step to my plan. I’ll have to make sure Hazoth never becomes aware of my presence in his house—so he can’t birth the demon.”
“That’ll be a nice bit o’ work,” Kemper said, “if’n ye can pull it off.”
Malden shrugged. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. He honestly did not expect to survive the job. Yet that thought was unworthy of being dwelt upon. He had a chance, a beggar’s chance, to make this work. That was all he would allow himself to think. “It’s better that way, at any rate. Even without the demon Hazoth is perfectly capable of destroying me. This changes nothing.”
“There are other concerns as well,” Cythera said. She stared deeply into Malden’s eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke. What was she looking for? he wondered. For conviction, for self-confidence?
Eventually she closed her eyes. The downward-drooping petals of painted cyclamen blooms made her eyelids white as paper. The flowers began to wilt before she opened her eyes again. “There are the traps, in this hallway.”
Malden looked down at the map. “Kemper discovered them, though he couldn’t discern their nature. We were hoping you might tell us what they were, and thus allow me to take measures to circumvent them.”
“That hope is forlorn,” she said. “I have lived in that house most my life, but never have I walked down that hallway. Hazoth doesn’t use it himself. When he goes to his sanctum—and on those occasions when he takes me there—he transports himself directly without passing through the intervening space. The hallway is a ruse, meant to confound thieves. The traps, I know, are very real, and quite deadly. They can be disarmed by a simple mechanism inside the sanctum. There is a candle always burning there. To deactivate the traps it must be snuffed. But of course, you need to be inside the sanctum to do so. As I have no access to that room, I cannot do that for you.”
Malden nodded. “I expected to have to weather the traps myself. I have proven already—in the palace—that I can master such.”
“Indeed. Well, that leaves only two layers of defense we have not discussed. There is the magical barrier that surrounds the house and prevents anyone from entering until they have been passed by the sentries.”
“But that’s where you come in,” Malden said. “You’ll lower it for us, when the time comes.”
Cythera shook her head. “Had you come to me two days ago that might have been possible. Before Croy made a public spectacle of his desire to slay Hazoth.”
On the bed, the knight turned his head away.
“Hazoth,” Cythera told Malden, “knows I am connected to Croy. When he heard what happened up on Castle Hill, and what Croy said to Anselm Vry, he took the natural step of ensuring I could no longer lower the barrier. It is done with a certain hand gesture. The gesture can be anything—a sign drawn in the air with one finger, a clap of the hands, it doesn’t matter. But you must know it to pass the invisible wall. Hazoth cha
nged the signal and didn’t tell me what the new pass sign is.”
Malden’s heart sunk. “But you escaped tonight.”
“The captain of the guards knows the new sign. I was able to convince him to perform it for me—but only when I was not looking. I had to lie to him to get him to do it. I told him that Hazoth required some special incense for a ritual, and that it could not wait until morning. Such a thing has happened before, and the captain believed me. It is not an excuse I can use twice, however. The next time I try, he will become suspicious, and he will ask Hazoth if what I say is true. That would defeat your purpose, I think.”
“It would.”
Cythera scratched very delicately at one eyebrow. “You will need to give them a reason to lower the barrier.”
“I’ll find one. Is that all, or have you more bad news for me?”
Cythera smiled without humor. “Only one more item. As I mentioned, Hazoth expects Croy to attack him. He does not fear Croy overmuch—he knows that Croy is more full of bluster than bravado.”
The knight cringed on the bed but said nothing.
Cythera glanced his way, then went on. “However, he is taking no chances. If one Ancient Blade is opposed to him, he will align himself with another. Tomorrow I am ordered to go out and find Bikker, and bring him to an audience with Hazoth.”
Malden cursed under his breath. “I thought you said Bikker doesn’t work for Hazoth.”
“He doesn’t. I don’t know who Bikker’s master is, actually. I only know Bikker will definitely come when I call him.”
“I don’t understand,” Malden said.
“Stealing the crown in the first place was Bikker’s idea. Or rather, it was the notion of he who pays Bikker’s wage. Bikker first came to the villa a month ago. He said he represented a wealthy patron who wished to contract for Hazoth’s services. Hazoth cannot be bought with coin, but there are things in this world he covets. One is his privacy. The king would have him burnt at the stake should he ever learn the experiments Hazoth performs in his sanctum. So when Bikker proposed this scheme, Hazoth listened, for Bikker’s employer promised him no one would ever learn what he was about. Whomever it may be—I have never met the man, nor learned anything of him—he convinced Hazoth he could offer his protection in exchange for Hazoth’s part in the plot. It was Bikker’s employer who decided a thief would be found to steal the crown—you know that much, of course—and then Hazoth would be employed to keep it in hiding. There really is no safer place for it in the Free City. The spells on the house prevent any spy from seeing it, and also any diviner from locating it with magic.”
Den of Thieves Page 30
