Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  “Hello, old friend,” Croy said. “I don’t suppose you’ve come around and regained your honor, have you? Care to apologize to me, offer a prayer to the Lady, and be on your way?”

  Bikker laughed. “Oh, and is it that easy for a dog to change his spots? I suppose I should make some act of contrition as well. Some penance for my evil ways. Yes, I suppose I could give in to your outmoded notions of honor and chivalry. Or I could just kill you—crush you like a gnat that buzzes in my ear, and then go back to my debauchery. Like any sane man living in the real world would do.”

  Croy smiled, though it pained him. “You know, in some strange way it’s good to see you again. It takes me back to better days. You remember, back when you were young and you were at your best.”

  “I’d like to say it’s good to see you, too. Except that you don’t look well, Croy,” Bikker said, frowning as if this saddened him. “How much blood is left in you?”

  “Enough yet to boil, old friend,” Croy said. Enough to keep me standing for perhaps a moment or two longer, he hoped. “Enough to best a dozen men, just now.”

  Bikker nodded in respectful appreciation. “Yes, you certainly showed those dogs how a real man fights. By feint and bluff, mostly.”

  Croy bowed low. “Perhaps I’ve been taking lessons from the master of deception,” he said. “You taught me much of that style.”

  “Just as I taught you how to hold that piece of iron you call a sword.” Bikker took a step toward Croy. “Tell me. Why are you here? For Cythera, truly? I daresay right now she could fight better than her champion.”

  “I’ve come for the crown you stole. The one you paid to have stolen, rather, at the behest of the man who holds your leash.”

  Bikker shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps that’s why you came. But you must know you won’t leave here with it. I think you came for another reason, though. I think you came to apologize and beg my mercy. To make amends for the time you impugned my honor.”

  “Do you mean when I called you faithless, because you sell your sword to any man with a purse?” Croy laughed. “A gross insult indeed. Though how, may I ask, did I besmirch your honor—when I spoke nothing but the truth? You were sworn to defend the Burgrave, just as I was. Now you’ve received a better offer and you work for the man who would unseat my lord.”

  Bikker’s face darkened with rage. “Wake up, Croy. Put away your dreams, your naive ideals. We are Ancient Blades! The Burgrave doesn’t deserve our service.”

  “It isn’t a question of merit. It’s a question of loyalty. Of duty. You may call those things fancies, but I will not. I believe in them and I will fight to prove it.”

  “When you die by my sword, what will that prove?”

  “That honor is immortal,” Croy replied.

  Bikker’s hand went to his scabbard, and Acidtongue leapt free. Its pitted and corroded surface glinted wet in the moonlight. A droplet of acid formed on its tip and fell to the ground, where it smoked and bubbled. “Draw your sword,” the big swordsman said. He held Acidtongue almost straight out at his side.

  Croy bowed his head. He uttered a short prayer to the Lady, that She might strengthen his arm in Her service. Then he reached behind him and drew his shortsword, bringing it down over his shoulder to point directly at Bikker. Ghostcutter remained safely in its sheath.

  “You bastard,” Bikker said. “Draw your real sword.”

  “Ghostcutter is for killing demons,” Croy said, “or worthy opponents. You are neither, only a churl whose blood will befoul even this length of simple steel.”

  It was a harsh insult indeed, but it had the desired effect. Bikker’s wrath bubbled over and he slashed wildly with Acidtongue, bringing the blade up high and then driving it down toward Croy’s quillions.

  That might have been enough—that one blow could have carved right through the dwarven steel of the shortsword and had enough momentum left to drive Acidtongue right through Croy’s body. It could have been the stroke that killed the knight.

  But he still had his shield on his left arm. He brought it up high and took the blow hard on his forearm. The acid-wet blade burned through the oak shield and cut through its iron boss as easily as it cut through the air, but Croy rolled his arm under the cut and sent Acidtongue driving down into the grass and dirt between his feet.

  Bikker leapt backward, pulling his blade free and out of range of a counterattack. He laughed maniacally. “Very good, Croy. Very good.” The rage drained out of his countenance. Had it been a ruse? It had looked real enough. “You might survive five minutes if you keep fighting defensively. Will that be long enough?”

  “Long enough for what?” Croy asked.

  “For your friend Malden to reach the crown. After all, the real reason you’re here is to distract me, isn’t it? To keep me out of the house while your pet thief robs the place.”

  Croy could not help but let his face show his surprise. How could Bikker know that?

  “You didn’t think we would leave the crown unguarded, did you? How very foolish of Malden. Hazoth is a sorcerer. He has many ways of watching what goes on inside his own house. He knows that Malden is in there right now, and he knows what Malden is trying to do. Ah! There, look!”

  Bikker pointed up at the rose window on the third floor of the house. Multicolored light burst from inside the glass.

  “Hazoth is greeting his uninvited house guest even as we speak,” Bikker announced.

  “No,” Croy breathed. “No.” It could not be. If Hazoth caught Malden red-handed and killed him as a trespasser, then who would retrieve the crown? Who would free Coruth, and by so doing, Cythera?

  “No!” Croy shouted again, and ran at Bikker, his shortsword flashing up and around for a desperate cut.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Malden scrubbed at his eyes with the balls of his thumbs, trying to clear away the burning smears of light that flickered in his skull. His eyesight returned very slowly—whatever caused that flash of light had been strong enough to blind him. He could only hope it wasn’t permanent.

  His hearing was unaffected. He could sense there were other people in the sanctum now. He could hear them walking around him. And he could hear someone applauding.

  “Very impressive indeed. I thought it was a clever trick that a gutter ape had learned to read! Now I see that animal cunning can evolve to handle basic problem-solving as well, given an adequate stimulus. Though of course, I should not be surprised. Last summer we had a mole that burrowed into the garden, coming through the barrier from underneath the ground, where I never thought to extend it. Vermin will always find a way.”

  “Good evening, Magus,” Malden said, because the voice belonged to Hazoth. Fear washed down his back like a spill of icy water, but he tried to keep his voice level.

  “Did I say you could speak? No. Still. You’re a bold rodent, aren’t you? Courage is admirable, even in lower orders of life. So I’ll forgive that breach of manners. I’ll forgive your insolence, if only once.” Hazoth strode over to stand before Malden, who was hunched over, still rubbing at his eyes. He could see nothing in detail, just vague shapes and shadows.

  “You bested the Eye of Klaproth,” Hazoth said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I wonder—did you somehow see through its illusions, or is it simply that your simple mind was incapable of providing the imagery it works with? Either way, your primitive brain has served you quite well. You might have actually succeeded—I was preoccupied, and I might have remained ignorant of your presence if Cythera hadn’t warned me.”

  “Wh-What . . . ?” Malden managed to ask.

  Cythera?

  “Even a fool of Sir Croy’s caliber would not think he could cut his way into my house, not with the magical barrier in place. It was a noisy diversion you had him make out front, but I could not figure out why he was doing it. So I summoned Cythera and demanded she tell me everything. Every detail of your ambitious little plan. And she did, without much hesitation.”

  Cythera had be
trayed him? Malden could scarcely credit it. She had so much to lose—but then he supposed Hazoth had ways enough to get information from her. He moved one hand down toward his belt, inching it toward the hilt of his bodkin.

  But . . . no. He could barely see. Striking out blindly now would be foolish. He fought down his immediate reaction, the rage at being discovered, the terror of what was to come next. It wasn’t useful to him. He could deal with it later, if he lived through this.

  “Interesting. Look, look at this, Cythera. You can see his thoughts as they grow ever so slowly in his head. Watch his hands, and his mouth. They give him away. Fascinating, really.”

  Malden held his tongue.

  “You’re a rodent, my friend, and nothing more. A verminous little animal. Yet you do amuse me, after a fashion. I thank you for bringing a bit of excitement to my tedious routine. Here. You shall have a reward—I will return to you your eyesight.”

  Instantly Malden’s eyes cleared. He blinked a few times and then looked around him. The room had changed little. The flames burned a healthier hue now, and the light was better so he could make out more of the sanctum’s contents, though he saw little to recommend the improvement. Hazoth was exactly as Malden remembered him, though now he was wearing a nightshirt and a fitted leather skullcap.

  Cythera stood behind him, her eyes downcast. She looked as lovely as ever, even if Malden knew she’d betrayed him. She met his gaze and mouthed an apology, though she did not speak out loud. She looked so piteous, so sympathetic, that he wondered if he could summon up real anger at her betrayal.

  He found he could not.

  She had pinned her hopes to Croy’s star and been disappointed. She had hoped Malden could help her, and that appeared to have failed, too. Her life—and that of her mother—were bound in unholy union with Hazoth, and she could not free herself. She needed help so she had turned to anyone she could get, even a poor thief like him. He’d done his best, and she had helped him to the full extent of her ability. But they had both known it was a long shot. A suicide mission. No, he could not blame her now. Had she maintained her innocence, if she’d held her tongue, Hazoth would have taken out his rage on Coruth.

  Malden knew Cythera would never let that happen, if she had any choice at all.

  He glanced over at Coruth and the leaden box that held the crown. They were unchanged.

  “Quite safe,” Hazoth said. He walked over to the magic circle and bent to inspect the chalk lines on the floorboards. While he was thus busy, Malden looked over at Cythera, trying to think of what signal to send her.

  All he could do was shrug.

  Cythera turned her gaze on the tree that was her mother. A single tear rolled down her painted cheek. Malden’s heart went out to her. She must have dared to hope when she saw how close he had come to rescuing Coruth. The plan had gone so smoothly, and now . . . Well. Things had changed.

  He longed to speak to her. To reassure her, perhaps, though what words he would use to do so escaped him. Hazoth had not given him permission to speak anyway, so he kept silent. He tried to communicate with Cythera using just his eyes, but she would no longer look at him.

  “One thing,” Hazoth said, rising to his feet again, “escapes me. I would like to have an answer before I decide what to do with you, little rodent.”

  He came back over to Malden and stared down at him with unquiet eyes.

  “What you are doing here is quite clear. You came to steal back that which you were paid for,” Hazoth said. “Why you would do so is no mystery. I imagine you think that if you can recover the item you will be able to bargain for your life with those who seek it. A logical conclusion, though there is one fallacy in your reasoning. The players in this game outstrip you in power and in intellect. They would be glad to have the thing back, certainly. But they would not let you live once they had it. Don’t you see? You’ve learned too much. An animal in possession of a secret is a dangerous animal. They would slaughter you even more readily than I.”

  Malden bit his lip.

  “You may speak,” Hazoth told him. “In fact, I insist. Tell me who sent you, and what they want from the crown?”

  Malden frowned. “Surely you know the answer. The Burgrave wants what was stolen from him. He will be embarrassed if he appears tomorrow in the Ladymas procession without his crown.”

  Hazoth smiled. “The Burgrave? Do you mean Ommen Tarness? I really don’t think he was the one who employed you.” He laughed at the thought. “No, not Ommen.”

  “Why should he not?” Malden asked.

  “Because Ommen Tarness is an idiot,” Hazoth answered.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  “A fool, perhaps, but—”

  Hazoth’s face clouded with anger. “I did not say you could speak!” he thundered.

  Inside Malden’s chest his heart stopped beating. Pain lanced through his limbs and he dropped to the floor in a quivering heap. He could not draw breath, could not move, and every sound in the room was a distant echo—

  —and then he recovered. He sat up carefully, unsure if he was still alive or had passed into the afterlife.

  Hazoth went on as if nothing had occurred. “I do not use that word as a casual insult. Ommen Tarness is mentally an infant. He has been since he was thirteen years old, when his father died and he became the Burgrave—his brains stopped growing, even as his body developed. He can barely feed himself. I understand that getting him dressed each morning is a tiresome chore—he doesn’t like to wear state clothing, and throws fits of tantrums when the castellan tries to put a robe over his shoulders.”

  Malden frowned in confusion. He’d seen Ommen Tarness in public many times, and the man had always struck him as highly intelligent and composed.

  “Ommen’s father, Holger Tarness, was the same. And Holger’s father, and his father’s father—the line of Tarness is corrupted in the blood. There hasn’t been one of them that could wipe his nose properly in centuries,” Hazoth said. “It really isn’t proper to call Ommen the Burgrave at all. He is like a horse that carries a rider, and that rider is the true Burgrave. Who is currently sealed into yon leaden box.”

  Malden turned to stare at the coffer tangled in the rowan tree’s roots.

  “Tell me, rodent. Are you bright enough to know who I speak of? You may answer me, if you think you’ve worked it out.”

  Malden considered the puzzle carefully. “I think perhaps I can work out your meaning. I have enough clues to piece together now. The crown spoke to me, when I held it. It possessed an air of command, as if it was accustomed to people accepting its orders without question.” He shook his head. He could still remember how it called to him—and how desperately hard it had been to ignore its commands. It wanted him to place it on his own head. He thought he understood now exactly how foolish that would have been.

  He considered his second point. “Further, I saw the chamber where it resided when not in use, and that room was full of campaign banners and the trophies of war. Mementos of a military man, placed where no one would normally see them. Yet clearly they were treasured by someone. There is only one man I can think of who fits the bill.”

  He nodded to himself. “Finally, I know that no other crown will serve Ommen Tarness. Bikker initially suggested that when the crown was stolen, the Burgrave could simply have a replica made and that he would not even come looking for the original, for fear of embarrassment should its theft be discovered. Since then, however, certain . . . others have told me that only this one will do. That it cannot be so simply replaced. But why not? No one ever heard the crown speak, except for me and presumably Ommen Tarness. A nonspeaking replica would be accepted by the people without question. So it must be that Ommen requires the crown to function as Burgrave.”

  He met Hazoth’s gaze directly. “Based on these elements, I believe I have a conclusion. Are you saying that Juring Tarness lives on, eight hundred years after his supposed death, imprisoned inside his own crown?”

  Hazoth’s eyes fl
ashed with excitement. “Wonderful! You have it precisely. Juring Tarness, the first Burgrave, who founded the Free City of Ness. The general who handed his king a country, and asked for a cesspool as reward. Yes! But you have one subtle detail wrong. It is not Juring who is imprisoned by the crown—it is Ommen.”

  Malden thought he understood the distinction, but he said nothing rather than risk Hazoth’s displeasure with his rudeness.

  “Juring and I were fast friends, eight centuries ago. He came to me one night at the end of his life and begged me for my aid. He had a son at that time, an heir who would take up his crown and his title when he died. Sadly, the boy was a wastrel—all his energies were given over to petty entertainments, wine, and whoring. Anyone could see the son would never be a fit ruler. Juring loved his city and worried what would happen to it when his son took power. He had built a fiefdom for himself and ruled it ably. Perhaps his people thought him just and wise. Perhaps they only obeyed him because they knew what he was capable of when angered. His son could not command such respect. More importantly, the boy was incapable of holding onto money. He was a gambler and a drunkard, and Juring knew that if he was given free rein, he would bankrupt the city in a year. The king at that time feared Juring enough to stay out of his business, but once Juring was gone, the king would surely see the son’s weakness. One way or another it would end with the city’s charter being revoked, and everything that Juring had worked for would be lost.”

  Hazoth’s eyes grew bright as he remembered the long-lost past. Malden was not so foolish as to think the wizard distracted enough to give him any chance of escape. “When he came to me, Juring was at the end of his tether. He could see no solution. If only there was a way for his wisdom to survive his death, some method by which he could continue to advise his son—and to command him, should it come to that . . . He thought perhaps I knew a way to help. I considered the problem from all angles, and eventually I found the answer.”