Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  She shook her head. “Don’t tell me. If Hazoth questions me, he can make me give up your secrets. Unless I don’t have them.”

  “Very well,” Malden said, appreciating her wisdom. “Then let me say only: your mother may be free by morning.”

  Her eyes flashed with hope. She crossed the room to him, her velvet cloak swishing around her feet. “Malden—thank you,” she said. “I know you have your own reasons for doing this. But thank you.”

  He started to bow but then thought better of it. Instead he held out his hand.

  She smiled and held her own just above his palm, a fraction of an inch from touching him. Painted clematis and brier rose twisted around her knuckles. “No—don’t,” she warned when he leaned over her hand to kiss her fingers. “Please, Malden, for your own sake—”

  His lips touched her skin with the gentlest of pressures. Had he only breathed upon her hand she would have felt it more.

  “Oh, what are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Kissing me! Malden, once I tried to kill you with a kiss.”

  “I’ve faced less sweet dooms since,” he told her. “I’d rather die on your lips than on the point of Bikker’s sword.”

  “You . . . you speak words of love to me.”

  Malden shrugged. “Are you surprised? I’ve felt something for you, Cythera, since the first time I met you. Tell me that was just a spell. Some charm your mother cast on you, to make you irresistible to men.”

  “No,” Cythera said.

  “Then what I feel is real,” he said.

  For a moment they only watched each other, like duelists preparing to begin. He knew she felt something as well. She must! Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it was dangerous. But he’d been leading up to this for a very long time.

  She took a step back. “One rough kiss would be all it takes to release the magic in my painted skin. It would destroy you.”

  “I’m not afraid of the curses you’ve stored up,” he said. “A rough kiss would set them off, you say. Yet a gentle kiss is harmless, as we’ve seen.”

  She laughed, delighted. “You are quite nimble, aren’t you?”

  “I could show you just how deft I am,” he told her. “If you have an hour before you must return.”

  “Malden, you dare much.”

  “Do I offend? Then slap me across the cheek,” he told her, daring more.

  He touched her wrist with one finger and traced a tattooed creeper that ran up toward her elbow. He kept his fingertip barely in contact with her skin, but enough so. He had lived among whores long enough to gain some basic knowledge of the erotic arts. For instance, he knew that a feather-soft touch on sensitive skin could be more maddening and arousing than a rough caress.

  “Croy—” Cythera said, but then closed her mouth as a shudder ran through her body. “Croy—”

  “Is not here,” he told her. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “How long has it been, Cythera, since you were touched like this?”

  “Too long,” she said.

  “But you remember how it feels, don’t you?” It was a careful way of asking an important question.

  “Yes,” she said. “Before I met Croy, there were . . . others. They were brutes, for the most part. Too quick to take what they wanted, or they were cruel and wanted what I did not wish to part with.”

  “But what do you want?” Malden asked her. He reached up and unpinned her hair, letting it fall down across her cheeks.

  She sighed. “I don’t think any man has ever asked me that question.”

  “Would you like to sit down? My bed is just over here.”

  She laughed again, as if she didn’t know how to react. “If Croy knew what you were doing, his heart would crack like a badly forged bell.”

  “Is there any reason why you would tell him?” Malden asked. “I’m no brute, Cythera. Nor am I cruel. You can stop this with a word. But if you remain silent . . . well. The choice is yours.”

  Chapter Seventy

  When Croy came in, an hour later, Malden and Cythera were sitting on opposite sides of the room, trying to work out between them who Bikker’s mysterious employer might be. There were plenty of likely suspects.

  “The king wants the charter revoked,” Cythera pointed out. “So he can tax Ness. He must lose thousands of royals every year because of a promise his distant ancestor made to the distant ancestor of our Burgrave.”

  “He has the motive, I’ll grant it,” Malden said, “but my money’s on Bikker himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think Bikker invented this phantom employer. I think he knew Hazoth would never take him seriously, or maybe he wanted a scapegoat if everything went wrong. When the city riots, I think he’ll present himself as its new ruler. A man with an Ancient Blade could rally the people to his standard—and end the violence. He’d be a hero, and a sure bet to be named as Tarness’s successor.”

  “Is a magic sword all it takes to lead men? Why, then, Croy might be our hidden enemy,” Cythera pointed out. She and Malden both stared at Croy as if they’d discovered a dire secret.

  Croy stared back as if they’d both gone mad. When they laughed at their little joke, he turned bright red and went to Malden’s washstand. “Does it even matter?” Croy asked. He poured water over his hands in the basin and scrubbed at his face. “It’s too late to make use of such information. It’s almost time to begin. The plan can’t be changed now.”

  “I must go,” Cythera said. “You know I cannot aid you once things are in motion,” she said, glancing at Malden.

  He nodded. “You must act as surprised as anyone. But you’ll know it has begun when the ogre appears on your doorstep.”

  “An ogre,” she said. “You mentioned it before. Where in the world did you find one of those?”

  “It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright—twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”

  “Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”

  “Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”

  “Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”

  Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”

  “It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being—even in self-defense—the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”

  “Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden slowly turned to face Croy.

  “You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.

  Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.

  Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.

  “The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to
find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”

  “Are you calling me faithless?”

  Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker—the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”

  “Never,” Croy said.

  “Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”

  He watched the muscles in Croy’s neck tighten. “I am not a liar, by inclination or by practice,” the knight said. “But I was left with no choice.”

  “Speak plainly!”

  Croy sighed. “Don’t you understand? If I’m to recover Cythera’s trust, I must earn it. I must be the one who frees her and her mother.”

  “I’ve been generous enough to let you play a part, but that’s all,” Malden pointed out.

  “The role you’ve set for me in your scheme is meaningless. I am to stand as a lookout, and nothing more. How can that show Cythera the depth of my devotion to her? It should be me fighting for her freedom. It should be my arm, my sword, that strikes the telling blow. And no other man has a right to fell Bikker. That is my duty, and I will perform it.”

  “You’re wounded,” Malden said. He did not allow the point of his bodkin to shift even a fraction of an inch. “Even at the fullness of your strength, you’re no match for Bikker. He would have bested you up at the palace if the demon there hadn’t diverted his attention. He would have killed you then. Are you so hot to die at his hand now?”

  “Love will strengthen my arm,” Croy said. “Justice will be my shield.”

  Malden chuckled, and the point of his knife bobbed up and down, just a hairbreadth. Apparently it was enough.

  Croy shifted under Malden too fast to follow. One of his legs kicked out and knocked Malden’s feet from under him, and the thief fell backward against the bed. It was all he could do to stop his fall with his free hand, while keeping the bodkin pointed in Croy’s direction.

  Before he had recovered himself, Croy was looming over him with his shortsword in his hand, the point just under his chin. The blade shone so bright Malden could see his own shocked expression in its surface.

  “I may be wounded. I’m still an Ancient Blade. You can mock my ideals all you want, thief. You can’t deny my skill.”

  “I suppose not,” Malden said. “Very well. Who am I to deny you your own destruction? You fool. Maybe you’ve cost us everything by this deception.” He wanted to spit in disgust.

  “I can slay Bikker. I must!”

  “As you wish it. Take the ogre’s place. Die, if that’s what you want. As long as you survive a minute against the retainers, that’s all I need.”

  “You’ll find that even if I’m not as strong as Gurrh, when it comes to swordplay I am matchless. Anyway, you have no choice.” Croy lowered his sword. “It’s almost time to begin,” he said. “There’s no time to find a replacement. Not even a band of bravos.”

  Malden nodded. He was still looking into the sword’s blade, meeting his own eyes in reflection. “Yes,” he said. “Strong. He’s still very strong, even if he can’t fight.” It was like the sun had just come up in his mind. He saw it now, a way to make this work. “Croy, I’ve just had an idea that might save both our lives. Can you get word to the ogre and give him new instructions? He may have his uses yet.”

  Part IV

  The Job

  Interlude

  Slag the dwarf climbed up into one of Cutbill’s chairs and puffed out his cheeks. “That boy Malden doesn’t have a fucking chance, does he?”

  Cutbill had a great deal of respect for his dwarf. The diminutive craftsmen had a foul mouth, it was true, and a fouler disposition, but his work was immaculate and it allowed Cutbill’s thieves to do things that should have been impossible. So he showed the dwarf the signal honor of putting down his pen before he looked up and said, “Probably not.”

  Slag nodded and scratched at his wild beard. “I just heard from Loophole. He thinks you don’t know that he’s been asking around, which is just fucking stupid. But he says Anselm Vry is turning half the city arse over eyebrows looking for the—”

  Cutbill arched one eyebrow. His office was one of the most secure places in the city, and there should have been no chance of any unwanted ears listening at his doors, but in a world where the bailiff had a wizard with a shewstone at his disposal, no conversation was truly safe.

  Slag nodded and held up his hands in apology. “—for the thing,” he concluded. “Vry’s watchmen are tearing open every damned door in the Stink, as if some poor bastard of a cobbler is hiding it in his privy. You think his wits are buggered? Seems like he’s lost his mind with terror.”

  “Oh, no,” Cutbill said. “What he does makes perfect sense. He will fail to find it, of course, but then he can at least show the Burgrave that he made an honest effort. He’s looking in the Stink rather than the Golden Slope for the same reason he made no real attempt to recover it from its current location—because he’s afraid of the occupants. The rich citizens in their mansions up by Castle Hill would never put up with such outrages. The poor folk living under the Smoke can’t afford to be as particular.”

  “So he won’t find it in time, and Malden doesn’t stand a chance either.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’d say his chances are quite grim. But I picked Malden for a reason, Slag. It wasn’t because he showed such ability when he robbed Guthrun Whiteclay. It’s because he has a brain in his head. One sees that so rarely in the men who come through my door. If anyone can pull this job off, it’s Malden.”

  “That why you’re sitting here, still scratching fucking notes in your fucking book?” Slag asked, gesturing at Cutbill’s ledger. “Like any other day. You might be dead tomorrow morning. Shouldn’t you be out whoring or drinking yourself sick?”

  “I imagine if I am to have my throat cut on the morrow, a bad hangover or a case of the crotch rot would not, in point of fact, improve the experience. But no, I am not working so late because I expect Malden to succeed. I am working in case he does not. This ledger is more than just a record of accounts. It is my life’s work. It can never really be done, but I am attempting to make it as complete as possible. It includes a number of instructions that are to be carried out if I do meet my creator in the morning. I called you in here specifically because I need your help with that. Later tonight I want you to vacate the premises well before Anselm Vry and his soldiers arrive. And I want you to take this book with you. There are a number of people who should see it: the Pirate Queen of the Maw Archipelago will be most interested, for one. The Great Chieftain of the barbarians, Mörg the Wise, absolutely must be allowed to read page three hundred and nine if we are to avoid a war with his people.”

  “Such desperate fuckers as them need to see the guild’s records of payments and income?” Slag asked. The gleam in his eye was one of distinct curiosity. Few things could break a dwarf out of his dark moods, but a juicy mystery was near the top of the list. “What’s really in there, then?”

  “You’re free to read it and find out,” Cutbill said. He turned the ledger around so it faced Slag. The dwarf made his way across the room and climbed up on Cutbill’s desk to see better. Reading along upside down, Cutbill watched as Slag’s eye ran down the endless columns of numbers to the spidery glyphs that appeared in the margins of each page. Slag stabbed the coded symbols with one delicate finger.

  “Huh. Fucking clever. It’s in cipher.”

  Cutbill favored Slag with a thin smile. “One I’m sure you could break, given enough time.”

  “That’s not why you want me to take the book, though.”

  Cutbill shook his head. “No. I’ve chosen you for this task for a very simple reason. When Anselm Vry comes here tomorrow, he will kill every member of the guild he can get his hands on—with one exception. The law will not allow him to kill you.” It was t
rue. Any man who turned his hand against a dwarf, so much as to slap him in anger, would forfeit his own life. It was the treaty humanity had made with the dwarves when they allied against the elves at the end of the long-past wars. It was a treaty never broken or ignored, simply because only dwarves knew the secret of making steel, and that made them more valuable to the king than his own subjects. “Furthermore, you are allowed to travel anywhere in the continent you please, and no one can stop you. You are, my friend, the only one I can trust with this duty.”

  “Sure. That’s what they always say about the shit jobs.” Slag squinted at Cutbill as if the guildmaster of thieves were either an exquisite gem or a worthless piece of paste and he wanted to decide which. “I never had a blasted clue before tonight. But there’s more to you than people think, ain’t there?”

  “On the contrary. I am exactly what I appear to be.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am a man who has very good reason to keep his secrets safe.” Cutbill smiled once more. “Now I’ll ask you to leave me, if you’ll be so kind. I have a great deal to get down before they come for me. Oh, one last thing: if, despite the obvious odds, Malden does succeed somehow—I must ask you to never mention this conversation to him, or anyone else.”

  “Sure. If that happens, I’ll be so surprised I’ll probably bust a vein in my skull and forget all about it anyway.”

  “I do so admire the optimism of your people,” Cutbill said.

  The dwarf headed for the door. He had work to do of his own. “Ah, sod off, you bigoted bastard,” he replied.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  It was the night before Ladymas, one of the most important fair days of the year. Though dark had come and the streets were unsafe as ever, still the Free City of Ness bustled with activity. There was much to prepare and make ready before dawn.

  In the Ladychapel up in the Spires, the junior priests brought out the giant gold cornucopia that would be the centerpiece of the morning’s procession. They polished it with soft cloths until it shone like the sun, even in the light of a single candle. Others started loading it with the hundreds of small cakes and pieces of fruit that would be thrown to the poor as it was carried along. The lesser icons—the rudder, the globe, and the wheel—were touched up with gold paint to hide the chips and scratches where the wood beneath showed through. The senior priests kept vigil at the altar, intoning plainsong prayers and staying on their knees all night before Her sacred image.