Malden thought of Anselm Vry’s hedge wizard, and his shewstone. It had, as she said, not been able to locate the crown.
“It would take a small army to besiege the house, and a more powerful sorcerer than Hazoth—if any exist—to breach the barrier. If you wanted something of exceptional value to be kept safe, Hazoth’s sanctum is exactly what you’d need.”
“Interesting. I thought Hazoth wanted the crown to study it. Now I learn he is only an agent for some other player, who remains unknown. But what, exactly, do they hope to achieve? Bikker said no one would come looking for the crown. That the Burgrave would simply have a replica made, and forget the theft ever happened. We know that was not the case.” And Cutbill had told Anselm Vry that a replica crown would not suffice—but why not? There were so many questions Malden had no answers for, and imagined he never might. “What do they want to happen?”
“I am unclear on the specifics,” Cythera admitted. “I do know what they think will happen. The Burgrave will appear in public on Ladymas, without his crown. Somehow that will cause the people to riot. Bikker and his employer intend to turn that riot into a full-scale revolt. They mean to whip the people into a frenzy and cause them to overthrow the Burgrave.”
“But that would be madness!” Malden said. “The king would revoke the city’s charter on the instant. He’d have to, just to restore order. And then every man in Ness would lose his freedom.”
“There are many who would benefit from that,” Cythera pointed out.
Malden scratched at his chin. His whole skin had begun to itch. He chafed under the yoke of his low birth already. Without the freedom granted by the city’s charter, he would be no more master of his own destiny than a farmhand out in the countryside.
He would rather have been confined in the pit, tormented by demons night and day.
“The point of all this,” Cythera said, “is that Bikker’s employer will not wish the crown to be stolen back. So Bikker will be there when you try. He will be leading Hazoth’s guards.”
“That’s a major problem,” Malden admitted. “My plan depended on the guards being sloppy and undisciplined.”
“Bikker won’t allow that luxury. He’ll command them personally.”
“And if he should discover me inside the house—”
“I don’t know if you should be more afraid of the demon, of Hazoth himself, or of Bikker. Not one of them will let you live.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
“I’m afraid I’ve been of little help, save to make you think this hopeless,” Cythera said, straightening the maps on Malden’s table. “And now I must go. I do wish you luck—for my mother’s sake, at the very least.”
“Not for my own?” Malden said. “Don’t answer that. Get back safely. If Hazoth realizes what you’ve done, I can imagine you’ll suffer, one way or another.”
“Yes,” she said. She frowned and looked over at the bed. She sighed deeply, but clearly there was something she had to say to her betrothed before she went. “Croy,” she said softly. “Croy, we must—”
The knight jumped to his feet and came over to stand quite close to her. “Cythera, how can I gain your forgiveness? I’ve caused you nothing but trouble. How can I make this up to you?”
“You owe me nothing, Croy. You made a promise—well, we both made promises, didn’t we? But sometimes life gets in the way of promises.” She looked away from him. Malden could see how upset she was, but he didn’t dare intrude.
Then something odd happened. She met Malden’s eye. She looked into his eyes and for a second he thought she was pleading with him to say something. To jump in and save her from the hard thing she was contemplating.
As he had no idea what that might be, he could say nothing.
She sighed again and turned to face Croy.
“I don’t want you to get killed,” she said to the knight. “And right now, if you try to fight Bikker, that is exactly what will happen. So I want you to tell me that you won’t try. That you’ll let Malden handle this alone.”
Alone? Malden thought. So it’s all right if Bikker kills me?
“Milady,” Croy said, dropping to his knees so hard the floorboards creaked. “I would die a thousand times in your service—”
“But why? Why would I want that? It would accomplish nothing!”
“But I took a vow to save you and your mother—”
“You and I will have to talk when this is over. If any of us are still alive,” she said. “Oh, Croy, don’t look at me like that.”
The knight dropped his gaze.
“Be of good cheer,” she told him. “I don’t like seeing you like this. Anyway, perhaps things will work out. Maybe a thief can succeed where a knight failed.”
Malden glanced over at Kemper, and they both shook their heads. As much as Malden wished his own troubles gone, he would not have traded places with Croy at that moment.
“I didn’t mean that to be cruel,” Cythera insisted. She tried to meet Croy’s eye but he wouldn’t look up at her. “I have not forgotten all you’ve done for me,” she told him. “But you must realize—my mother’s safety, and my freedom, mean everything to me.”
“And to me,” Croy said.
“Then you must free me,” she said.
“But that’s exactly what I—that is, what Malden and I are trying to do,” Croy pointed out.
“An’ me, son, don’t forget I’m riskin’ my neck, too,” Kemper insisted.
“And Kemper, too, of course. We’re all trying to free you,” Croy said.
“No, not from that . . . you infuriating man!” Cythera moved toward the door. “Croy—please. Let me go.”
He did look up at her then, with utter confusion on his face. “I would never dream of delaying you.”
“Then forgive me already and let me be at peace,” she said.
“Forgive you . . . but for what?” Croy asked.
Cythera’s face creased in grief. “You don’t understand. I can’t make you understand. Just tell me you forgive me. Even if you don’t know why.”
“Of course, then, I forgive you. I forgive you all—there is never anything you could do I would not forgive and forget, on the instant . . .” The knight’s voice trailed off. Maybe he was starting to get the point after all.
“I go,” Cythera said. “Goodbye. Malden, I’ll try and come to see you again the day you make your move. If anything changes before then I’ll make sure you know it. I’ll have to come to you during the day, when I do my marketing.”
“I’ll be ready,” Malden told her.
Cythera left then. The three men watched her head up the lane toward Turnhill Bridge, which would eventually lead her down to Parkwall. When she was out of sight Croy walked over to the table and slammed it with his fist.
“What did she mean by that? Why would she ask for my forgiveness? What has she ever done to harm me?”
Malden bit his lip and went to sit on the bed. It was late and he just wanted to go to sleep.
“Lad,” Kemper said to Croy, sounding sympathetic, “ye’ve not much experience with women, have ye? I don’t mean with yer mother or sisters either. Ye don’t seem the type fer whorin’, but have ye e’er swived one?” He took his cards from inside his tunic and started shuffling them, rubbing each one with his thumb.
“I’ve spent most of my life learning how to swing a sword properly. She’s not the only woman I’ve ever . . . cared for, if that’s what you mean. There was the dwarf king’s daughter. I was her protector, and saved her from a fate worse than death. In reward, she allowed me a single kiss.”
Malden couldn’t resist asking the question he knew was probably foremost in Kemper’s mind as well. “Did she have a beard?”
Croy’s face went dark. “No. No, she did not. A bit of a mustache, perhaps. But no more than you’ll see on many a human woman’s face. And I’ll have you know,” he insisted, when he saw the two thieves were laughing behind their hands, “she would have given me her body, had I as
ked. But I had my oath to Cythera to consider.”
“Methinks that’s not a concern now,” Kemper said. He riffled his cards absentmindedly. “Mayhap ye should go back to yer dwarven princess.”
“Speak plainly, damn you,” Croy shouted. He was bright red.
“He’s saying that Cythera was asking your forgiveness for breaking off her betrothal to you,” Malden said.
“She . . . she . . .”
“She didn’t want to say it in so many words, because she was afraid of your reaction. She was hoping you would just understand.” Malden stared at Kemper. Why did the card sharp have to spell it out for Croy? Now the fool knight would probably spend another day lying abed and staring at the ceiling. Malden supposed if you were rich enough you could afford to be moody. “Enough,” he said. “Enough. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow morning I’ll need to make a whole new plan. And you,” he said, rushing over to Kemper, “quit shuffling those damned cards.”
“Here now, boy—”
Malden grabbed the cards out of Kemper’s intangible hands and shoved them in his own tunic. “I can’t think when you’re doing that. Now, to bed, all of us.”
He doused the lamp and pulled off his tunic, then got into bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He did not, however, get to sleep much that night. Croy made too great a racket with his sobbing tears, and Kemper kept grumbling about his cards.
Enough, enough, enough, Malden thought to himself. Kemper was largely safe from harm, no matter what came. And Croy would be nowhere near the villa when he broke into it. The knight would be useless in any scheme he could imagine.
It was up to him to get the crown back. He could put together a crew but he couldn’t truly count on them. He would have to pass the barrier, get through the hallway of traps, and retrieve the crown, all without being detected. He would then need to do that which might be harder, which was to escape with his skin intact.
Even then his troubles might only begin anew. Anselm Vry might be watching him at that very moment, waiting until he recovered the crown before swooping in and taking all credit for himself. Cutbill might have him killed regardless of what happened, just for causing so much trouble in the first place.
And Hazoth would still have his demon, and Bikker would still have his acid-drooling sword. And both of them would have reason to want him dead.
The problems seemed insoluble.
Well, they always had. He had to keep going.
He had to think of something.
Eventually Malden did sleep, despite the companions of his bedchamber. He sank deep and came back only when the first rays of dawn burst in through the gap between the shutters and the window. He opened his eyes, checked that his bodkin was under his pillow where he left it, and only then sat up.
“Good morning,” Croy said, smiling down at him.
The knight had never looked happier.
“Hmm,” Malden said. He rose and pulled on his tunic, slipped his bodkin into its sheath. Kemper was lying curled in one corner, snoring and farting, dead to the world. Croy, however, was fully dressed and looked like he’d just taken a bath. He had his shortsword out and was polishing it with a cloth.
Malden wondered if the man had gone mad during the night. Maybe Croy was going to kill himself. It was not something he wanted to witness. “You seem recovered from your cares,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, yes. Everything is better now,” Croy said.
“It is?”
“I had a dream, Malden.” He put the sword down and rose to his feet. “No. I tell a lie. It was a vision. I saw Cythera in her bridal veil. I saw myself standing before her, with flowers woven in my hair. And when I woke, I understood. Nothing is broken between us that cannot be repaired. She is merely testing me.”
“Is she, now?”
“Indeed. All the stories of knights and dragons and fair maidens go like this. The maiden refuses to accept the knight’s troth until he slays the beast. He must prove himself, in combat, before she can truly love him.”
“In the stories, you say,” Malden went on.
“Yes. So my path is clear. I will earn her love. I will do this by killing Hazoth. A sorcerer is in many ways like a dragon, is he not? I will slay him. And maybe Bikker as well. And anyone else who opposes me.”
“Even though she asked you not to,” Malden pointed out.
“That,” Croy said, with a gleam of insight in his eye, “is the crux of the test. I will free Coruth. And only then will Cythera look on me with favor once more. What do you think?”
“I suppose,” Malden said, “that anything is possible.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Malden sent Kemper to keep an eye on Hazoth’s villa—discreetly—while he went over to the Ashes to see Cutbill’s dwarf, Slag. Croy insisted on coming along. “I must do all in my power to assist you. And when the time comes, it must be my swords that cut the sorcerer down,” he said.
“Fine. But for today, you leave them behind,” Malden told him.
The knight errant looked at the thief as if he were mad, but Malden stood firm. Eventually Croy did as he was told, unbuckling the swords from his baldric and stashing them beneath the loose floorboards of Malden’s room.
“Now,” Malden said, “walk from here to the bed and back.”
“This is folly,” Croy said, but he did it.
Malden listened to the man clank his way across the room as if he were a walking thunder crash. “Are you wearing a mail shirt under your jerkin?” he asked.
“No,” Croy said. “What is the point of this?”
Malden studied the man’s dress, then made him take off the baldric. The heavy leather sash was covered in buckles and hooks that clinked together when he moved. With the baldric off, Croy made far less noise than he had before—but somehow his swagger still made the floorboards creak and the room shake.
“You are the noisiest man I’ve ever met,” Malden told him. “You’ll never make it as a thief.”
“But—why in the Lady’s name should I want to be one?”
Malden stared at him. “You’re trying to steal a crown from a wizard’s house. By definition, methinks, that makes you a thief. Or a would-be thief.”
“Ah, I see the problem,” Croy said, smiling. “No, no, we are not common thieves if we take the crown back from Hazoth. We are liberators. Heroes!”
Malden doubted very much that Hazoth would see it that way. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about being called a “common” thief. But he had better things to do than argue. “Walk back this way,” he said, and listened closely. “Maybe it’s your boots?”
Whatever the source of the clamor, there was no more to be done for it. Together they went out into the street and crossed the Stink, keeping well clear of areas regularly patrolled by the city watch. Should a cloak-of-eyes spot Croy, they would give chase on the instant. Not for the first time, Malden thought of turning the knight over to the authorities just to get him out of the way.
When they reached the Ashes he raised one hand in warning. “Don’t jump when you see them. Don’t make any quick move. Just stay calm.”
“See who?” Croy asked, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out.
A boy of no more than eight was standing in the road before them. His face was smeared with ash and he was holding a long shard of broken glass in one hand. He did not speak, of course.
Croy dropped to one knee in the soot. “Why, hello there,” he said, and held his hand out toward the boy. There was a piece of crystallized ginger in it.
Where in the Bloodgod’s name had he gotten a bit of candy? Malden wondered. Perhaps Croy carried sweets around just in case he ever met a child.
He doubted Croy had ever met a child like this. The boy did not take the ginger. He just stood there watching them, his face impassive. Waiting to see whether he should give the signal that would bring a hundred armed children down on the two of them with murderous intent.
“You know me,” Malden told the
boy. The boy nodded. “I have business here, with him.” He tapped his chest above his heart. The boy knew what he meant. “This one,” he said, gesturing at Croy, “should not follow me.” He mused for a moment. “But I want him in one piece when I return.”
The boy shrugged. That was up to Croy and how stupidly the knight acted while he was gone. It was the best answer Malden would get.
“Fair enough.” He turned to Croy, who was smiling broadly at the boy and even crossing his eyes to try to make the child laugh. “Croy, he’d rather cut your throat than let you tousle his hair. Just mind yourself while I’m gone. I won’t tarry.”
He jogged around a corner and into the ruin above Cutbill’s lair, where he was quite pleased to see the three oldsters sitting once more on their coffin. “I feared you were driven off by unwelcome visitors, or worse,” he said, and clasped Loophole’s hand.
“Nay, son, we just scarpered at the first sign of trouble,” the old man replied. “That’s one of those things you learn how to do if you want to get to be an old thief. I’m glad to see you alive, though. We weren’t far away, and when we saw you coming in, we wanted to warn you but there was just no way, not without giving away our own position.”
“I understand. It was a close thing but I survived my encounter with the law. Did, ah, did Cutbill tell you anything of what it was about?”
Loophole frowned. “And why would he think to do that? His business is his own. And we don’t ask questions, the answers to which might get us in trouble.”
Den of Thieves Page 31
