Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  Malden just hoped that he’d already been dead beforehand.

  The message this grisly execution sent was clear. Recruiters had swept through all the counties and baronies around Ness, calling up every man who could fight for Skrae. Ness had refused that call. As a Free City it technically owed no obligation to the king-he could not conscript Ness’s citizens, nor could he demand they pay taxes to fund his campaigns. Clearly, at least one serjeant had been foolish enough to think the people of Ness were patriots all the same.

  It was that independent streak that had birthed Malden and made him who he was, that unique Nessian truculence in the face of authority. Still, he doubted the serjeant deserved such treatment. Surely the Burgrave who ruled Ness could just have had the man tarred and feathered and sent on his way.

  But of course Malden knew it had probably been the Burgrave himself who ordered the death of the serjeant. Ommen Tarness, the current Burgrave, was fiercely independent of nature. He answered only and directly to the king, and even then he excelled in sticking to the exact letter of the city’s charter. Tarness saw the Free City as his own personal fiefdom, and he would not have looked kindly on any attempt to recruit from among his people.

  “Poor bugger,” Slag said.

  Cythera didn’t even look at the dead man. Her eyes were on the city walls. “Home,” she said, with some weary measure of relief and hope. Malden took her hand, not caring who saw it. Their journey from Helstrow had been an endless round of nights spent slogging through muddy fields and long days hiding in abandoned barns when they saw signs that bandits were about. Velmont and his crew had given them numbers, and a certain degree of security, but Malden hadn’t been willing to chance an encounter with desperate men.

  Funny, that. It wasn’t so long ago he’d considered himself as desperate as they came.

  “It’ll be good to get back to my workshop in Cutbill’s lair,” Slag said, rubbing dust out of his eyes.

  “Aye, Cutbill should be glad to see us,” Malden said.

  The dwarf shot him a meaningful look. Malden chose to ignore it.

  The city gate was manned by a single guard, a lame old watchman in a shabby undyed cloak embroidered with a pattern of eyes. That made him a watchman, one of the bailiff’s enforcers of public order. Normally the watch didn’t stand gate duty. Malden worried that the oldster might recognize him, but the guard took one look at the sword on his hip and waved him through.

  The street beyond the gate was empty. Usually it would have been thronged with hawkers and beggars, hoping to make some coin from any newly arrived travelers. Malden couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen this street-or any street in Ness for that matter-when it wasn’t crammed with people. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  The watchman laughed. “Gone to ground if they’re smart, or run as far and as fast as their feet could carry ’em. You haven’t heard there’s war coming?”

  Malden bit his lip. “We heard rumors, I suppose.”

  “Where are you coming from, if I may ask?” the guard said, giving the thief a second look. Malden realized he shouldn’t have asked any questions. “I’ve been told to expect refugees from Helstrow. You’re dusty enough for a refugee, I suppose.”

  “We’re late of Redweir,” Malden lied, unsure what the guard’s orders might be regarding such refugees. Most likely he’d been told to drive them away-no city wanted new immigrants in time of war. Refugees were extra mouths to feed who would come with nothing but the clothes on their backs. “We’ve come to do business with Guthrun Whiteclay, the master of the potter’s guild.”

  The guard snorted. “Fare well with that, then, for he’s not here. Him and most of the burgesses’ve already run for it. Some to the west, some as far as the Empire, I hear tell. Is that a dwarf you’ve got with you? They were the first to go-hightailed it for their own kingdom days before we even knew there was barbarians coming. Nobody knows why.”

  “Because we’re smarter than you humans,” Slag pointed out.

  “Well, that’s what they say. And yet, you’re here, little fella.”

  Slag was discreet enough not to react to the barb.

  “Whiteclay wouldn’t just have abandoned his business altogether. He must have left some agent inside,” Malden said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I’ll need to speak with him, then.”

  “More luck to you, if you do find someone to do business with. Get on inside.”

  “My thanks,” Malden told him, and headed through the open gate.

  He found his city changed enormously since he’d left. Oh, the buildings were the same, the streets just as winding and close and full of filth as he remembered. Yet every shop sign, every standard in the street, every gable of every house, had been strewn with hawthorn branches-that tree most sacred to the Lady, for it wore her colors. It seemed like every door had been hung with a hawthorn wreath.

  And yet there was no one about to appreciate all this decoration. It wasn’t just the street by the gate. Every street in Ness was empty. Occasionally Malden would spy someone through a window, or hear footsteps echoing in a side street, but otherwise the city might have been abandoned, deserted-silent. Or nearly so.

  “Do you hear that music?” Cythera asked.

  Once she said it, he did hear it-the high strains of a fife and the dull, slow beating of a drum. “Sounds like it’s coming from up on Castle Hill.”

  Ness had been built on a massive hill, constructed in concentric zones around the Burgrave’s palace. Market Square was up top, surrounded by the Spires-the district of temples, public buildings, and the university. Malden led his crew up the Cornmarket Bridge, intending to investigate the music and see where all the people had gone. Weary as they were, Velmont and his thieves followed close behind. They had never been here before and most likely just didn’t want to get lost.

  It was a long walk up a steep slope, but the cobblestones were so familiar under Malden’s soft leather shoes that he didn’t feel the fatigue of climbing. Slag grumbled but Cythera kept drawing ahead, as if impatient for Malden to get to the top. When they reached the side of the counting house, just outside Market Square, Malden stopped them all and just stood there, staring.

  An army had formed in the square, perhaps a thousand men in tabards of russet and green. No two of them seemed to carry the same weapons or wear the same sort of armor, but they marched around the edges of the square in scrupulous order, their feet moving to the beat of the drum. Some of them carried flags with the coat of arms of Ness, while others held campaign banners so old and decayed they frayed visibly as Malden watched.

  He’d seen those campaign banners before. They had hung in a secret chamber inside the Burgrave’s palace. They were the souvenirs of Juring Tarness, the first Burgrave of the city, a general who had helped found the kingdom of Skrae eight hundred years ago. Ommen Tarness, the current Burgrave, was Juring’s direct descendant.

  “Ye men, will you come, and heed the call?” someone asked in a high, clear voice. Malden looked up with a start and saw an old man with one leg come hobbling toward him on a crutch. There was a sprig of hawthorn pinned to his tunic. “Skrae has need, for this is a dark hour. But the Free Army will show these barbarians a thing or two yet!” The cripple held out sprigs just like the one he wore.

  Malden looked again at the soldiers in the square. He thought he recognized some of them. Joiners, cobblers, redsmiths, ropewalkers-men from a hundred other occupations. These were the good solid citizenry of Ness, all right, men who had worked the city’s many trades when last he’d seen them. Men who grumbled about the Burgrave’s policies and taxes, and spoke open treason against him in taverns and gaming houses. Men who thought of government as an evil rarely necessary but somehow inescapable. Now they were soldiers, recruits-could it be, volunteers?

  “What happens if we say no?” Malden asked.

  The cripple looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Well, that’s your right, of course. As citizens you cannot be
forced to serve. But you look able-bodied to me. Why would you turn down this opportunity? You’ll get to see the kingdom, and the pay’s better than anything the guilds offer. Look how many of your neighbors have joined up already! See how dashing they look. And don’t forget-every good girl loves a soldier. Isn’t that right, mistress?”

  Cythera shook her head in disbelief. “Malden,” she said, ignoring the cripple, “they’re not bewitched. I would see it if a spell had been cast over them. Beyond that, I have no explanation for this. I should go and talk to my mother.”

  Malden grasped her hand and looked deep into her eyes. “Be safe,” he said, “I don’t like the look of this… Come,” he told Slag and Velmont. “Let’s go find Cutbill. Maybe he knows what’s going on.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cythera found her mother down in Swampwall, where the river Skrait entered the walls of Ness. The district flooded every spring, so no one lived there-and because it was so eerily deserted in the midst of the thronging city, it had gained an evil reputation. Supposedly it was full of spirits and deadly wildlife and places where the ground had subsided and would suck a man down to his death before he had time to call for help. In fact it would have been a pleasant, tranquil place if not for all the stinging insects. Whole city blocks there had been abandoned to sprawling vegetation, interrupted only by a broken bit of wall or the sunken foundations of some ancient house.

  Coruth came there quite often to collect herbs and simples. When Cythera spied her mother, Coruth was bent over a reddish plant, gathering flower petals. She had a basket tucked under one arm already full to the brim with bryony, dittany, and rue.

  “You came,” Coruth said without looking up. “I thought perhaps you had ignored my summons. I hope your journey here was uneventful.”

  “I spent a week dodging bandits and comforting girls who had been abused by men and worrying always that some barbarian would find us and kill us all while we slept. I huddled in burnt-out barns by day and clutched myself for warmth at night,” Cythera said. “I was terrified and miserable the entire time. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but there’s a war on. And now I return to find Ness all but deserted. Mother, what is going on? What have you seen?”

  The witch straightened up and smiled at her daughter. “Oh, terrible things. But then I always do. The problem with seeing the future is the same as the problem with seeing the past. So much of it is bloody and brutal. Today, though, the sun is shining and the leaves are changing color. It’s good to see you.”

  Cythera felt her jaw drop. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had spoken to her with tenderness. Coruth was not a particularly warm sort. She was a witch, after all, and witches had to maintain a fearful aspect. “I’ve missed you, myself,” Cythera replied.

  “I’ve always loved this part of the work,” Coruth said, and bent to pluck the spiky leaves of a plant so small that anyone else would have passed it by. “So nice to be out in the fresh air, close to green and growing things. Do you know this one?”

  “Calendula,” Cythera said, nodding at the plant. “The flower gives it away.”

  “Quite so,” Coruth said. “It’s good for reducing a fever. Very useful. What about this?”

  She pointed at a wild tangle of grass growing around the base of an ancient signpost. Cythera took a moment to think. Most grasses looked exactly alike, but they had wildly different uses and virtues. “Fountain grass,” she said finally.

  “Very good. And why would I want to gather it?” Coruth asked.

  Cythera shook her head. She knew she was being tested-this wasn’t the first time she and her mother had played this particular game-but it had to be a trick. “It has no uses that I’m aware of.”

  “Really?” Coruth asked.

  Cythera bit her lower lip and tried to recall. This had to be a trick question. “Yes. I’m certain. Absolutely useless.”

  “Unless I wished to thatch the roof of a house. Or feed a sheep,” Coruth pointed out. “It has a pleasant smell, too, so I might mix it with the rushes I lay on my floor. To a man being hunted by enemy soldiers, fountain grass might be very useful. It might mean the difference between life and death, because it grows tall enough to hide him from view.”

  Cythera sighed. “I meant it had no use in magic.”

  Coruth laughed. It barely sounded like a cackle at all. “I thought I’d taught you better than that. Magic isn’t all about casting spells. Now, help your old mother out with your young eyes. Do you see any poppies around here? If we’re going to have wounded men stacked in heaps-and we will, very soon-we’ll need something to ease their pain.”

  Cythera cast around her looking for the red flowers but couldn’t see any. This was another test, but she didn’t know whether she should keep looking until she found the poppies or if she was supposed to announce there weren’t any. Then she caught sight of a particular purple flower she knew all too well and gasped.

  “Did you find some?” Coruth asked.

  “No-no, just-look here. Mandrake.”

  The witch and her daughter bent low over the plant, which grew very close to the ground. Its fleshly leaves spread out around the purple flowers and shaded the ground below. Mandrake was one of the rarest of plants, and also one of the most useful to a witch. Every part of it was deadly poison, but if properly diluted and prepared, it could work a hundred different charms.

  “An excellent find,” Coruth agreed. “And at a time when I have a need for its roots.” She began to reach for the plant.

  “Mother, no!”

  “Something wrong?” Coruth asked.

  “Everyone knows about mandrake. The roots are like little men, and when they’re drawn from the earth they die. But they don’t go alone. They scream in their agony, and anyone who hears that cry will perish with them.”

  “Oh?” Coruth asked. “Yet surely there must be a way to harvest them.”

  Ah. So this was the real test. Cythera nodded. “You feed a little dog until it will follow you anywhere. Then you tie its tail to the stalk of the mandrake and run away. The dog will try to come after you, and in the process it will pull the root free. The dog dies but you have your treasure.”

  “What an absolutely horrible thing to do,” Coruth said. She clucked her tongue. “No dog deserves to die like that.”

  Cythera steeled herself. “Witches can’t always be kind. Sometimes they must be ruthless, for the greater good. A witch is beyond common notions of good and evil, but not beyond true morality. She must know when doing a little evil will prevent great suffering later. And she must be willing to take on that weight.”

  “I see you’ve actually heard some of the things I tried to teach you,” Coruth said. “Yes. You’ve even memorized some of them. I suppose that’s a good start.”

  “I see now why you wanted me to return to Ness,” Cythera said. Her blood felt as cold and greasy as river water in midwinter. “You want to train me to follow in your footsteps. To become a witch.”

  There had been a time when Cythera begged her mother to do just that. When she thought that having that power would be the only way to be free, to live her own life, instead of just becoming some man’s wife. Coruth had refused her, back then, and Cythera was mortified because she thought Coruth was telling her she wasn’t good enough. She’d been so distressed she ran right into Croy’s arms.

  Now-when she’d finally found love with Malden, love that wasn’t the same thing as iron chains around her neck-now when she had a reason to want to be a normal woman, now-only now-Coruth seemed to have changed her mind.

  “Yes,” her mother said. “You have it. Though you don’t know why yet.”

  Cythera lowered her head. “Because Ness is going to need as many witches as it can get. That’s right, isn’t it? The barbarians will come here. They’ll try to take the city. And we need to fight back.”

  “That isn’t it at all, actually,” Coruth said.

  “Mother,” Cythera said, drawing herself up
to her full height. “You do me great honor by offering to train me. I’m not sure that I want this, however. I-”

  “I wasn’t asking if you wanted it,” Coruth said, not even looking up.

  Cythera held herself very stiff, as if she could make this moment pass her by if she just held perfectly still.

  “You once wanted the power I offer you. You wanted the power of witchcraft, so you could be free. As so few women in this world ever get to be. You were wrong in thinking that it would give you freedom-a witch is never free. So I denied you.”

  “I don’t claim to understand what you mean,” Cythera said. “I only know that a witch can’t marry. She can’t even take a lover. Mother, I’ve found something with Malden, something that-”

  Coruth’s voice as she interrupted was hollow and free of inflection. Cythera knew that voice well. “You will have your chance to be his lover. You will be happy with him, for a short while. And then you will do something so horrible that you will never be able to look him in the eye again.”

  Cythera’s jaw dropped.

  That was the voice Coruth used when she made prophecy.

  “You’ve seen something,” she whispered. “You’ve seen my future. Will you tell me what it is that you see me do?”

  “No,” Coruth said in a more natural tone.

  “But-something horrible? So horrible that… Mother! What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to train to become a witch, because it is the only way you can avoid what is to come. I’ve seen enough to know that. Now. May we stop pretending that you have a choice? That what you want actually matters?”

  Cythera wanted to cry. She wanted to wail, and run away, and go as far from Ness as she could get. She balled her hands into fists. Clamped her eyes shut. Finally, she nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get started with your training, shall we? Lesson the first.” Coruth’s hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist. It felt like the claws of a demon digging into her flesh. Cythera cried out but the pressure only increased. She could never have broken that grip-not even Croy could have resisted as Coruth forced her hand down to the soil, forced her fingers to lock around the stem of the mandrake plant.