Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  “Malden,” Cythera said, quite calmly, “you should go now.”

  The thief scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him he heard Hazoth start to scream as the skin of his back split open and demonic arms reached out to grasp at him with shredding claws.

  Every curse Cythera had stored on her skin for decades came loose at once, and they lashed out at Hazoth with interest. As the magician’s protective spells came apart, the demons he had exploited and enslaved sensed the release down in the pit, and sought every crack and crevice in the universe through which they could reach his side, intent on having their vengeance before the curses could undo Hazoth entirely. The people who lived on Ladypark Common closed their shutters and hid under their beds, but could not escape for the next three hours the screams of a dying sorcerer and the bellowing rage of the Bloodgod’s children, denied this prize for so long. They took their time destroying Hazoth. They savored it.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Witchly light filled the sky over the common, and the gruesome sounds of Hazoth’s demise made the air shiver. Malden did not look back over his shoulder, as much as he might have enjoyed watching Hazoth meet his sticky end. He had places to go yet tonight, things to achieve, or all could still be lost.

  He could see his path easily in the weird illumination as he broke for the streets beyond the common, intending to lose himself in that maze and make good his escape.

  He was not to be so lucky.

  Ahead of him on the Cripplegate Road, a score of men in cloaks-of-eyes were waiting with weapons in hand. They moved quickly to cut off any avenue of escape, circling around him should he even think to return to the ruined villa. When Malden was completely surrounded, one of them came forward and held out an empty hand. “Give it over, thief,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Malden tried.

  “We know you’ve got a dagger at your belt. Give it over or I’ll run you through and take it from you.”

  Malden stared at the man with pure hatred. But there was nothing he could do. He drew the bodkin from his belt and handed it over. “I’ll want that back, now.”

  With a chuckle, the watchman tossed the knife over the wall of the Ladypark.

  Malden’s heart sank. The message was clear. He wasn’t going to need the knife anymore. He would not be given another chance to use it.

  The rank of watchmen parted and someone came through the gap. Anselm Vry—with an expression of annoyance on his face.

  “You really couldn’t do it with less fuss?” he asked.

  Malden blinked in feigned incomprehension. “Do what, milord? I was only walking on the common, something I often do at night. I find it calms my mind. I’m not sure what’s going on over there,” he said, pointing at the green fire dancing on the other side of the common, “but I think you should definitely go investigate.”

  Vry sneered at him. “What’s that on your belt, then?” he asked.

  Malden patted his belt as if he couldn’t guess what the bailiff meant. Then he said, “Oh!” and unbuckled his belt to remove it. “You mean this.” The belt had been threaded through the golden crown he’d hidden under his cloak. He handed it over to Vry, who snatched it away from him.

  The bailiff closed his eyes and held the crown up in both hands. His eyes snapped open for a moment and he stared at Malden, but then looked away and nodded. “Yes, of course, milord,” he said, as if talking to the crown, not to Malden. “You,” he said, to one of his watchmen. “The bag.” A velvet sack was brought forth and the crown placed carefully inside. “Very good, thief,” Vry said.

  Malden bowed low. “So, may I inquire if there is a reward? I prefer it in gold, but will take silver if I must.”

  “I’ll count it out in steel,” Vry said with a short, nasty laugh. “You—kill him. Then form a detail and carry his body to the Skrait. Make sure you weigh it down so no one ever finds it.”

  A watchman with a halberd came lunging forward, but Malden had expected this and was already moving. He scurried up the wall of the Ladypark and dropped into a stand of bushes on the far side. There, he lay still and held his breath.

  A half dozen faces appeared over the top of the wall, including Vry’s. They peered into the darkness for a long minute before withdrawing.

  “It makes no difference. Let panthers and wolves fight over him now,” Vry said. “If he lives through the night, we’ll just find him in the morning.”

  And with that they left.

  Malden stayed still for a while longer, and then, when he was sure no one was watching, he got up and started looking for his bodkin.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  “Lay easy,” Cythera said. She held Croy’s hand tight. His other hand still clutched the hilt of Ghostcutter. He looked at the blade and saw a bad notch in its silver edge, a wound it had taken when it blocked Acidtongue’s attack. He wondered if a dwarf could repair that damage, or if he should leave it there forever, in memory of Bikker.

  “It’s over,” Cythera said again. “Hazoth is dead.”

  “Hazoth?” Croy said, confused. “No, it’s Bikker, that’s—that’s Bikker there. I killed him. It had to be done. In the end I think maybe I was getting through to him, but—but it had to be done.” He struggled to sit up, and she pushed him back to the grass. He could not resist her hands.

  Her hands! She had touched him, and not been very gentle about it. But that could only mean one thing. He looked to her with wild eyes. Her face was . . . was unpainted. The curses that had ornamented her skin were gone. All of them.

  She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her skin was clear and fair, her eyes dark pools of calm and wisdom. Her slender arms were unadorned by so much as a painted leaf.

  She was free.

  “Over there,” she said, and pointed at a pillar of what looked like charred wood standing in the grass a dozen feet away. As Croy watched, it collapsed in on itself, like a log burned down to charcoal and ashes. “That’s all that’s left of my father.”

  “What of your mother?” Croy asked.

  “I am here as well, but in far better condition.” Coruth was suddenly standing at Croy’s feet, looking down on him.

  She was exactly the way he remembered her. Wild and unkempt hair the color of new-forged iron. A nose as thin and sharp as a halberd blade, and eyes that saw everything. She wore no pleasant countenance, but for that she could hardly be blamed. She’d spent the last ten years imprisoned in a magic circle. Of late she’d been a tree. Now she wore a simple black robe and had one arm in a makeshift sling, but he knew that if the kings and queens of the world could see her, they would bow their heads in respect. There was an aura around Coruth that anyone could sense, an aura of power.

  “I will heal your body,” she said. “That shall be your reward. For the thief, perhaps, there will be something more.”

  “I thank you,” Croy said.

  Coruth looked away and nodded. Then she turned herself into a flock of blackbirds and flew away, chattering to herself with many voices.

  “She’ll be back for you, don’t worry,” Cythera told the knight. “And I’ll stay until she returns.”

  He reached out his left hand and she took it again.

  Together they sat and watched the ruined house. Its fallen timbers smoldered and settled through the night, with occasional rumblings and groans, and now and then a loud report as a broken rafter collapsed or another piece of glass snapped under pressure. The wreckage was full of sharp barbs and unstable piles of masonry, leavened with heaps of broken glass that would shred any foot that tried to walk through them. Occasionally a bolt of green or red or blue discharged as some arcane energy was loosed from long confinement.

  The ruin did not look safe at all, but that didn’t mean it was left undisturbed.

  The first figure to crawl over the pile was that of Kemper. The intangible man cackled and clanked as he picked through the fallen house. His tunic was stuffed full of silver: knives, spoons, plates and dishes, actual c
oins, buckles, fittings and ornaments. The house had been a treasure trove of the stuff, and he was given the right to first pickings. When he finally left, barely able to walk for all the silver he’d stuffed into his clothes or carried in his straining arms, he was carrying a fortune.

  The next visitors to the fallen house were the beggar children of the Ashes. Tipped off by Malden, they arrived early and made quick work of sorting through the wreckage. They carried away books and tapestries and valuable pieces of unbroken glass. They carried off magic wands and shards of rusted iron that someone would buy. They took the bits of gold they found, some melted in the fires, some still in the shape of broken jewelry and dented goblets. Malden had told Croy that a rousing story of bravery would not change the children’s lives, and the knight thought the thief was just being apathetic, that he did not care for their welfare. He saw now that Malden had arranged for this—he must have given the children notice of what was to come. The quality of life the children enjoyed would be enlarged tenfold overnight, and Croy was glad. One of the children, a little girl in a dress made of an old sack, came over and stared at him for a while. He smiled at her, and she pressed a tiny treasure into his hand. A single glass bead, blue in color, quite valueless, but pretty. He thanked her with all the courtly politesse he could muster before she shrugged and ran away.

  Nearer to dawn the dwarf Slag arrived with a team of four horses and a massive wagon. He stared out into the darkness with alert eyes while a crew of human workers made their way through the wreckage with pry bars and block and tackle. It was not easy, but they were able to shift the half of the demon’s egg that remained unshattered. Rolling it on its side, they managed to get it into the wagon, and Slag hauled it away before anyone could see. What he wanted with several tons worth of pit-forged iron Croy could not imagine, but he was certain the dwarf would make good use of it.

  Others came, people Croy did not know. The news must have spread quickly that Hazoth had fallen and his treasures were up for grabs. Footpads, rogues, and bravos combed through the wreckage and took away what they desired—loot and weaponry, mostly. A papermaker and his apprentices came and carried off great sheaves of scorched and torn paper and cloth, which they would pulp down for raw materials. Half of the chandler’s guild came and took all the broken glass away, and sawyers took those beams and wattles that had not already been ground to sawdust in the collapse. Just before dawn gleaners from the Stink came and carted away that which no one else deemed valuable.

  It seemed impossible that anything would remain, yet one last looter did come. Gurrh the ogre, who had been sitting on the grass outside the gates the whole time, rose at dawn and made his way into the ruin. He picked through the debris until he found a leaden coffer, still sealed and barely dented. He tucked it under his armpit and then headed west, toward Swampwall and his home.

  All according to plan.

  As the sun came up, Cythera and Croy greeted it together, alone again. “It’s Ladymas,” Croy said, and Cythera kissed his cheek. “We prevailed,” he said, because he couldn’t quite believe it. “We won.”

  Meanwhile, inside the Ladypark a wolf snarled and snapped at the air. Behind it a dozen more circled, waiting their turn to attack. Malden held his hands out toward the beast, trying to calm it. He wished it didn’t look so hungry. He wished he’d kept Acidtongue as a prize, so he wouldn’t have to rely on his laughable bodkin. He wished so many people didn’t want him dead. He wished he knew better how to fight.

  He wished he could go home and go to sleep.

  Instead it looked like his short career as a thief was going to end with him being devoured by a pack of wolves. All this for nothing, he thought.

  The wolf took a step forward, its paw patting at the ground as if it were afraid of something, afraid to lunge. A hundred birds cawed and squawked behind Malden then, and he nearly jumped out of his own skin.

  Then an old woman in a dark robe stepped around him. She held one hand down low where the wolf could sniff at it. The animal licked her palm, then laid down in the grass and rested its head.

  “I think I know you,” Malden said to his rescuer. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “Yes,” the woman agreed.

  “Of course, at the time your complexion was more . . . barky.” He put his bodkin away. “You’re free, then. It worked.”

  “Yes.”

  “So . . . it’s over,” Malden said, because he devoutly wished that could be true.

  “No,” she said.

  “No,” he repeated. “No, I don’t suppose it is. Not quite yet.”

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Market Square was thick with crowds, people of every station and profession crammed together into the wide cobblestoned space, with cheers and prayers going up from every lip, with banners unfurled from every high place and gold or brass or tin cornucopias pinned to every hat and tunic. Since dawn the priests of the Lady had been out ministering to the faithful, leading long liturgical plainsongs and invoking the Lady’s blessings on the people, the city, and the king. They had to pick their way with care through streets so crammed with people there was no room to move freely. The citizens of Ness and all the pilgrims who had come for this holiest of days were all abroad, moving back and forth across the city as best they could, paying visits to each other or simply walking, taking in the fine weather while they uttered their prayers and thanks. In a riot of color and noise they praised the Lady.

  It was the kind of crowd that could move mountains if it chose. It was the kind of crowd that could, with the slightest push, be inspired to riot. To tear up the city in its excitement. A little wrath, a little shocked surprise, and the whole Free City of Ness could erupt like a burst dam.

  The throng gathered thickest and most fervent directly outside the Ladychapel, the great spired and vaulted church where the day’s grand procession would begin. The massive wooden doors were still closed, but men of the watch had to form a double cordon outside to keep the faithful from rushing in and seeing the icons before their proper time. With quarterstaffs and ropes they pushed the crowds back again and again. A few young devotees tried to climb up the heavily carved exterior of the chapel but were knocked down with long poles.

  One climber, however, had the brilliant idea to ascend the back of the chapel, where the guards weren’t watching. Of course, he was not one of the faithful overcome by religious zeal. He didn’t want to fall prostrate before the Lady’s altar, nor did he wish to break in and steal the cakes and sweetmeats loaded in the giant golden cornucopia inside either.

  Malden clutched at a gargoyle and hoisted himself up to one of the clerestory windows high on the side of the church. The window had been cranked open to let in some air—this close to midsummer, it was already hot just two hours past dawn—so he slipped inside and hid himself in the holy images mounted around the chapel dome.

  The acoustics of that place were such, and his senses so sharpened by nervous dread, that he could see and hear everything that took place in the nave below. A red velvet carpet had been unrolled from the altar all the way to the massive doors. Anselm Vry was down there, dressed in a cloak of state. It had the repeating eye motif of a watchman’s cloak, but was brocaded with silver wire. It looked very heavy. The Burgrave was there as well in full regalia, though his head was bare. They stood surrounded by a clutch of green-robed priests who prayed and wafted holy smoke around the Burgrave, while young acolytes went about lighting hundreds of candles and dozens of censers until the icons shone like the sun.

  “I said, leave us!” Vry shouted.

  “Milord bailiff,” one of the priests insisted, “this is a holy precinct, and your authority here is—”

  Vry established that authority by drawing a long dagger and pointing it at the priest’s face. “The Burgrave is not well. I must administer his physic before the procession begins, and I will not have you watch me do so,” he said.

  The priest had turned deathly pale when the knife came out. Now he nodded
and gestured at his fellows and the acolytes. They streamed out of the nave quickly enough.

  When Vry and the Burgrave were alone, the bailiff sheathed his dagger and then turned to look at the Burgrave with disdain. Ommen Tarness was weeping softly, a horrible sound well-amplified by the dome of the chapel. Up on his perch, Malden peered down with unsympathetic interest.

  “I don’t want to wear it,” Ommen said, his voice thick with snot. “I won’t! I’m free, finally free. Anselm, I feel . . . smarter today. I feel like—like I’m waking up from a very long nap, and I’m still groggy, but I feel—”

  Vry slapped the Burgrave hard across the face. Then he drew the crown from inside his silver cloak-of-eyes. “We discussed this. You will put on the crown. You will go out there and make your speech. I have an archer standing ready to cut you down if you start to babble. When you’re done speaking the words I gave you, I will emerge and announce that you have been ill and are no longer fit to serve as Burgrave. Then I will take you away from all this, and you’ll never have to wear the crown again.”

  “You . . . promise?” the Burgrave asked. He sounded like a naive child being promised a candy if he was good during a court ceremony. “Never again?”

  “Just this one last time. And anyway, this isn’t the crown you’re afraid of. This one doesn’t talk.” He lowered it over Ommen’s head, and the Burgrave bit his lip and mewled but didn’t stop him.

  Ommen squeezed his eyes tight as the crown made contact with his scalp. After a moment, though, he opened his eyes wide in surprise. “You’re right! It’s lost its power. I’m still—still me!”

  Vry smiled without humor. His expression changed drastically, however, when the crown lifted off Ommen Tarness’s head and started to float away.

  Up in the dome, Malden reeled in his line. He held the hat-fishing pole that Slag had made, the one the dwarf meant to be used under the arch of the Royal Ditch. The line strained under the weight of the crown, but Malden brought it up quickly and soon held the crown in his hand. Or rather, the false crown. Slag had made it as well, out of lead coated in gilding metal. It looked very much like the real crown, and had been polished until it shone like gold, but under close scrutiny the cheapness of its manufacture was obvious. Malden had carried it with him throughout his sojourn into Hazoth’s villa. He had known that Vry would show up at the last minute and seize the crown, so he made sure he had something to give the bailiff.