Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  “Mother? No!” Cythera screamed.

  “Pull,” Coruth said. And their two hands, locked together, dragged the mandrake root free of the ground. Cythera tried to cover one of her ears with her free hand, thinking to block out even a little of the deadly sound, the death throes of the root, which were always fatal, always deadly to anyone who dared to The root came free of the ground without so much as a squeak.

  It looked nothing at all like a man either, not really. She had been expecting a tiny homunculus with staring dead eyes and little fangs. Instead it looked like a root vegetable, brown and fibrous, bifurcated at one end to give the barest suggestion of legs.

  “But-”

  “Lesson the first,” Coruth said, “is this. Think. Always, always think. Have you ever seen a plant that had lungs or a throat? The mandrake root can’t scream. Even if it could, what sound could possibly kill someone? At worst such a scream might give you a headache, and there’s plenty of willow bark around here to help with that.”

  “But every authority agrees,” Cythera said when she had assured herself she was not dead. “Maybe this isn’t true mandrake, maybe you’re just trying to make a point, a point about… about…”

  “That’s real mandrake, all right. Don’t believe everything you’re told. Half the old stories about our art are just that-stories. Stories made up to scare off the uninitiated. It would be too dangerous to allow just anyone to play around with mandrake, so we made up this silly story about screaming roots to keep their grubby little hands off of it. Here. Take this basket. We need a round dozen of those roots for what I have in mind.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  After Cythera went to find her mother, Malden led Slag and the crew of thieves downhill, through the district of smithies and work yards known locally as the Smoke. Normally that name was self-evident-the chimneys of a thousand forges and the fuming tanners’ vats cloaked the streets in an eternal pall of foul smoke. Today the air was almost breathable. With the exception of the blacksmiths, whose shops were crowded with men churning out arms and armor, work had ground to a halt.

  “That’s-That’s fucking disgusting,” Slag said when they passed by a pewterer’s that was deserted and locked up tight. He placed his thin hands against the workshop’s brick chimney. “Ice cold, when it should be too hot to touch. They’ve let their fires go out-you never do that! Do you know how long it takes to get a furnace going from a cold start?”

  “Every shop along this way’s closed,” Velmont observed. “The masters must’ve fled, and the ’prentices gone to join up wi’ that piebald army we saw.” A wicked smile crossed the thief’s face. “That makes fer a prime looting opportunity, now don’t it? I think I might like it here in Ness, Malden.”

  Malden kept his own counsel. They descended into the Stink then, the part of the city where Malden lived when he was in town. His little room, above a waxchandler’s, was always warm in the winter from the great vats of molten wax directly beneath him, and the idea of sleeping in his own bed that night was appealing. However, he could not raise his landlord or any of the workers there no matter how much he hallooed or pounded on the doors.

  At least the Stink was not as deserted as the Smoke had been. There were still plenty of women around, going about their business as they always had-hanging washing on lines that ran above the streets, grinding meal to make bread, carting home their shopping. The women looked wary at the sight of men as they passed, but said nothing. There were oldsters and cripples about, too, far more than Malden expected, and very young children played everywhere or ran errands for their mothers. Without any men around, they seemed far more numerous than they’d ever been before.

  His face was a mask of quiet confusion by the time they reached the bottom of the city, at Westwall. Down there lay the Ashes, a region of houses that had burned down in the Seven Day Fire before he was born. The district had been so badly impoverished before the fire that the houses were never rebuilt. Weeds sprouted now between the cobbles, looking bedraggled by autumn’s coolth, and landslides of charred debris filled most of the alleys. One expected the Ashes to be deserted, and it certainly was-but there was something here as well that felt slightly off to Malden. When he realized what it was, he began to worry in earnest.

  He didn’t feel like he was being watched.

  The Ashes were home to Cutbill’s headquarters, but also to a gang of wholly noninnocent urchins, orphan children who had gathered together for safety and made concord with the guild of thieves for mutual protection. Normally they served as ever-vigilant guardians. They stood ready to kill anyone who came too close without Cutbill’s approval.

  Normally, if you knew where to look, you could see the glint of small eyes in every razed stub of a house, or see children watching you unblinking from the exposed rafters of the district’s fallen churches. Normally, Malden knew they were about long before he saw them.

  This day he felt completely alone in the Ashes.

  Surely the Burgrave would not have recruited the feral children? Most of them were too young, no matter how good they might be with their makeshift weapons.

  When he reached Cutbill’s lair without being challenged, Malden knew to be on his best guard. When he entered the fire-ravaged inn that topped the lair, he was no longer surprised to find it empty. A plain wooden coffin sat in the middle of the blackened floor, but no one sat atop it.

  “There should be three old men here,” he explained for Velmont’s benefit. “Loophole, ’Levenfingers, and Lockjaw. The elders of our guild. I like this not.”

  Slag stood well back as Malden opened the trapdoor that led down into the lair. Nothing escaped from underneath, however, save for a puff of stale air. He went down first, bidding the others to stay up top until he was sure it was safe.

  Below lay the common room where Cutbill’s legions normally disported themselves between jobs. Malden had never seen the room empty before. Always-at any hour of day or night-there had been a dice game here, while Cutbill’s latest enforcer or bodyguard watched the door. Now the room was empty and silent. Perhaps, he thought, the Burgrave had taken the present crisis as an excuse to finally break and disperse the guild of thieves. Maybe he’d sent his troops down here to kill Cutbill and all his workers. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. The rich tapestries on the walls were untouched, the stolen furniture was all in its proper place. Fresh tapers even stood in the cressets, only waiting to be lit. Malden struck flint and let a little light into the place, but that just served to make it seem spookier.

  Tentatively, knowing better from past experience, he approached the door to Cutbill’s office unbidden. No one popped their head out to offer him welcome or to warn him off. He checked carefully to see if the door was booby-trapped but found no sign.

  He pushed gently, and the door opened. It wasn’t even locked.

  Malden pressed farther into the office, expecting to find darkness and abandonment. At least in this he was mistaken.

  Candles burned inside. He saw the big desk that Cutbill never used, and the stool where the master of the guild of thieves was always perched. It was empty now. Cutbill’s ledger lay on its stand. That book recorded every transaction of the guild-including the names of every thief who had failed Cutbill and slain for their mistakes. He knew it would never have been left behind if the thieves deserted this place, and if the Burgrave raided it, he would certainly have confiscated the ledger as evidence against Cutbill.

  No, Cutbill would never have let that book out of his sight. It was his life’s work, and he spent every day scribbling figures on its wide vellum pages. Yet Cutbill himself was nowhere to be seen, which was itself a wonder. As far as Malden knew, the guildmaster never left this room.

  The place was not, however, empty. At first glance Malden’s eye ran completely over the old man sitting behind the desk, and failed to even register his presence. Then Lockjaw lifted a hand in greeting, and Malden jumped.

  “Welcome home, lad,” the oldster said. H
is voice was thin, starved by many years of earning his sobriquet. Lockjaw knew many secrets but had earned them by keeping them close. He was famous for never betraying a confidence… until the maximum profit could be made by divulging it.

  “Old friend, well met,” Malden said, and bowed to his elder. He had learned a great deal from this man and loved him dearly. “Is Cutbill available?” Perhaps he had simply stepped out to use the privy. Or maybe he was sleeping.

  “Gone,” Lockjaw said.

  “Gone? Just gone?”

  “Like every man in the city who could afford to flee, aye.”

  Malden could scarcely credit it. Cutbill would never leave Ness

  … but then, he’d never known Lockjaw to actually lie. He was a master at the half-truth, but he never lied. “And his bodyguard, Tyburn? What of the other thieves?”

  Lockjaw shrugged. “Most of ’em joined up already.”

  Malden nodded carefully. “They went to join the Burgrave, you mean. That madness seems to have spread through the city like a fever. But then, tell me, who’s in charge down here? Have you taken Cutbill’s place?”

  Lockjaw favored him with a very short chuckle. More of a ha. “Me, lad? Not a chance.”

  “But-someone must be holding the reins.”

  “Aye, Cutbill’s most trusted man’s been given mastery of the place.”

  Malden frowned. He could think of no one that Cutbill actually trusted. “Most trusted” in this case could only mean the one Cutbill least expected to betray his interests. “Now who would that be?” Malden asked.

  “You, lad. He left it all to you, to await your return.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “That’s ridiculous,” Malden said. How could he be Cutbill’s most trusted man? More to the point-why had Cutbill even expected him to return here? The guildmaster had sent an assassin to kill him. It had very nearly worked.

  “Let me get the others,” Lockjaw said. He looked as if saying so much already had thoroughly tired him out. Ducking behind a tapestry on one wall, he emerged a few moments later leading Loophole and ’Levenfingers. The other two oldsters looked bleary-eyed, as if they’d been sleeping.

  “Oh, lad, you’re a welcome vision,” Loophole said, and embraced Malden fondly. Malden had no reservations returning the warmth. ’Levenfingers patted him on the back and was all smiles.

  “Cutbill was one of the first to leave the city, back before any of us had heard there was barbarians coming,” ’Levenfingers told him. “Things have been hard here, with no one leading us. Every day a few more men grew tired of waiting and just left, and we couldn’t stop ’em. We might have fled ourselves, had we anywhere else to go. We’ve been taking turns sitting watch, waiting for you. I never doubted you’d be back, not me. I’m sure you’ll have things whipped into shape in no time at all.”

  “Surely,” Malden said, wishing he had any idea how he was supposed to make that happen. “Listen, fellows, I’ve been away a long while. I was at Helstrow, almost until the barbarians arrived-but I’ve had no news since then. What’s been happening?”

  The oldsters looked at each other as if they didn’t want to answer. “Helstrow’s fallen,” ’Levenfingers said.

  “Sacked,” Lockjaw agreed.

  “The fortress is in the enemy’s hands, and the king, they say, is dead.”

  Malden’s jaw dropped. Croy had been there, helping to lead the troops. Whatever else he thought of the knight, Malden had always believed Croy to be a master of things military. If Helstrow had fallen, that meant Croy had failed, and that was nearly unthinkable. “I assumed it would still be under siege-”

  “Taken by base treachery,” Loophole said, looking less outraged than grudgingly respectful. If a master thief wanted to take a city, he wouldn’t use force of arms, of course. He would steal the place out from under its current owners. It sounded like the barbarians had much the same idea. “The people enslaved, the army there broken and routed. The news came a sennight ago, just when the Burgrave started raising his own troops.”

  “I saw them marching in Market Square,” Malden said.

  ’Levenfingers nodded sagely. “And that’s just the latest batch. Many more-many thousands of ’em-are already encamped along the river Skrait. Ready to engage the enemy, should he tend this way.”

  “I have trouble believing the people of Ness would jump so quick to the defense of the crown,” Malden said. “I know these people! A more corrupt, self-serving rabble you’d never find.”

  “At first, it was hard for the Burgrave to inspire anyone to patriotism, true. But then the rich folk all started running like dogs,” Loophole said. “About the time the fortress fell. They must have had better information than us, because most of ’em left in a single night. Took only what they could carry, headed for anywhere they thought they might be safe. It’s clear they had no faith in their common man.”

  “The next morn,” ’Levenfingers went on, “the Burgrave declared them all traitors, and as such, their worldly goods was fair game. So he seized their plate and their coin, all their land. Sold everything for gold royals. Then he addressed the people, standing tall on a dais in Market Square. Said a plague had been purged from the city, a plague of faithless cowards. Said only good, honest working men remained. Said they deserved a reward for being true.”

  “A reward?” Malden asked.

  “Gold,” Lockjaw answered.

  “Every man what signs on with the Burgrave gets a gold royal, and a promise of another for every month he’s in the field.”

  “Aha!” Malden said.

  Now he had it. The cripple who tried to recruit him had mentioned good pay. He hadn’t mentioned any numbers, though.

  He certainly hadn’t said anything about gold.

  One gold royal was a full year’s wages for an untrained laborer in Ness. Even a skilled apprentice in a smithy, or for that matter a master in the guild of gleaners, could expect to see only a handful of the big gold coins in his lifetime. And of course they weren’t usually handed out as pay-most commerce in the Free City took the form of silver, or copper pennies and farthings. A single gold royal was a small fortune, and the promise of twelve a year was a promise that a man could get rich by fighting.

  If there was one way to motivate the people of Ness, one thing sure to get their attention, it was an appeal to their greed. The Burgrave knew his people well, it seemed.

  “But such folly!” Malden went on. “How many soldiers does he command now? If every able-bodied man in the city joined, that would be what, how many? Twenty thousand? There’s no possible way he could spend twenty thousand gold royals-a month-for long. He’ll bankrupt his own treasury!”

  “Some have noticed that,” Loophole said with a shrug. “Some have even lampooned the Burgrave for it, and given pretty speeches to that effect in the squares and the taverns.” Another shrug. “Then the royals started appearing in the hands of men who’d never even seen one before. Men whose most marketable skill was leaning against a tavern wall and hoisting a tankard back and forth to their mouths. The gold is real, Malden.”

  For now, the thief thought. It would run out pretty quick at that rate. But he supposed that wasn’t as big a problem as it first seemed. The men of Ness weren’t born warriors. If they had to fight the barbarians, most of them would perish in the first wave. The Burgrave would only have to pay the survivors.

  That cunning bastard. But maybe that was what it took to be a ruler of men-you had to be a villain just to keep them in line. Malden had never had any use for authority, and had always hated those who called themselves his superiors. He’d met the Burgrave, and the man had confirmed all his prejudices.

  Yet, still-this was more cynical than any man had a right to be. And that stood at odds with the whole point of raising an army in the first place. “I can’t believe that Ommen Tarness loves his king so much that he would spend his own money defending the country,” Malden pointed out. “What’s he really after?”

 
Loophole snorted. “He hasn’t seen fit to share his motivations with us.”

  No, Malden thought. He supposed Tarness wouldn’t make his plans public. It wasn’t the man’s style. “I suppose it matters not. Let him get himself and half of Ness killed, if he wants to play at soldiers,” he said with a sigh. “Anyway. Once he’s gone and taken his army with him, that’ll just make it easier for us to steal what he leaves behind. It’s an ill wave that doesn’t wash something up on shore.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “A ll right,” Malden said. “Well, that’s got me up to date. Now I imagine I need to think about the future. If I’m running this guild, I’ll need to get started. Did Cutbill leave me instructions, at least?” He had never run so much as a card game before. Surely Cutbill wouldn’t just assume he knew how to keep a criminal enterprise in motion.

  “He said it’s all in the ledger,” Loophole told him.

  Malden nodded and went to the lectern, where the infamous book lay open to a half-filled page. He saw columns and columns of numbers, each with a corresponding notation in a tiny, spidery hand. Very few of the notes meant anything to him, but he assumed they represented quantities of money brought in by various thieves, or paid out in bribes or other expenses. It wasn’t exactly a manual of instructions. Thinking Cutbill must have left him a message in plainer words, he flipped to the next blank page. And found what he was looking for-though it made him even more confused.

  The top of the page was inscribed: FOR MALDEN, SHOULD HE RETURN. Those were the only words Malden recognized. The rest were in some bizarre alphabet he’d never encountered before. Or perhaps not in any kind of alphabet at all, but a cipher-for the words were inscribed in circles and triangles and congeries of dots. It looked more like dwarven runes than human writing.