Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  “What do you make of this?” he asked the oldsters, showing them the encoded page.

  ’Levenfingers looked away. “Well, now, that’s really a private matter-”

  Loophole nodded eagerly. “None of our business, properly-”

  “None of us can read,” Lockjaw finished.

  “Ah,” Malden said. “No, of course not.” It was not that common a skill. He had learned to read and write because he grew up in a brothel that required a bookkeeper. Expecting thieves-even learned, wise, and venerable elders like these three-to know the art was expecting too much. “I beg your pardon.” He took the page in hand and started to tear it from the book. He hesitated, because this was Cutbill’s ledger. In the annals of the thieves of Ness, it was close on being a holy relic.

  Still. The page was addressed directly to him. He tore it out and stuffed it into his tunic, right next to Cutbill’s signed contract for his assassination.

  “I want word sent to every thief in the city who hasn’t joined on with the Burgrave yet,” Malden told the oldsters. “Have them all meet me tonight. Midnight,” he said, because that was a fitting time for a conclave of thieves. He thought for a moment, then added, “At the Godstone.”

  The oldsters agreed to do as he asked. Once he thanked them properly and handed each a bag of coins for expenses, Malden left the office and went back to the common room. Velmont and his crew had come down already and made themselves at home, lounging on the furniture with their dirty boots. That seemed less acceptable, now that it was technically his furniture.

  “Velmont,” he said. “You work for me now. Is that a problem?”

  “Where’s your famous Cutbill?” the Helstrovian thief asked.

  “Gone. He left me in charge. I’ll ask again, is that a problem?”

  Velmont held one hand out, palm upward.

  Malden nodded and took a dozen coins from his purse. After what he’d given the oldsters, he had precious little left, but that was the cost of doing business. He laid the silver on Velmont’s palm.

  “No problem a’tall,” the Helstrovian told him.

  “Good.” Malden looked over and saw Slag at his workbench, sorting through his tools as if to make sure nothing had been taken. “Slag-show this bunch around. Find some food for them. I’m sure they’re all hungry after traveling so far.”

  “Sure, lad,” Slag said, and rose from his bench. If he was at all surprised that Malden had just taken over the thieves’ guild, he showed no sign of it.

  I wish I had the same confidence, Malden thought.

  He started for the trapdoor, but Slag stopped him with a look. “Where are you headed?” the dwarf asked. “In case we need you.”

  Malden thought of telling the dwarf to mind his own business. But he supposed Slag had a point. If the watch broke in and raided the lair in his absence, he would want to know about it, wouldn’t he? “I’m going to see the witch Coruth.”

  “Your prospective mother-in-law,” Slag said with a grin.

  That fact hadn’t occurred to him. Instead he’d thought that Coruth might be the one person in Ness who could decipher Cutbill’s instructions.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Croy brought the whetstone carefully up the iron edge of his sword. The sound it made grated on his nerves, which were at an especially fine pitch already. It was all right. The irritation would help keep him awake. He hadn’t slept in three days.

  He brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Touched it gently to the iron. Drew it back up toward the point. Ghostcutter required a very special kind of maintenance. The iron blade was cold-forged by an ancient and forgotten process that imbued a certain virtue to the metal. If the blade were ever exposed to high heat-even from the friction of a whetstone-its mystical temper would be lost. It would no longer be so puissant at its original purpose: slaying demons.

  Not that any demons had presented themselves lately. At least none of the inhuman variety called up from the pit by mad sorcerers.

  There had been a time when seven swords were needed, when demons had roamed the land freely and seven knights were required to vanquish them. Now they had become rare, as sorcery was slowly being wiped out. Now, more and more often, the Ancient Blades were being turned against human enemies-and even each other.

  Was their time passing? Was this the dawning of a new age, when men fought only against men? The elves were all but extinct. Ogres, trolls, and goblins were becoming the stuff of mere rumor and campfire tales.

  And at Helstrow, Croy himself had seen an Ancient Blade broken.

  The swords had been forged with a certain destiny in mind. If that destiny had come to fruition, if they were no longer needed, then perhaps that explained how the impossible had happened. Perhaps it was a sign from the Lady, a warning not to depend on the things of the past.

  Or perhaps there was a more worldly reason. The axe Morget used to cut through Bloodquaffer had been made of dwarven steel. That metal had not existed eight hundred years ago, when the blades were forged. There was nothing of magic in steel-but it was stronger, more flexible, and held an edge better than even the most arcane iron.

  He stared down into the dark flat of Ghostcutter, into the shining mirror of the silver that coated its trailing edge. It was a weapon ill-suited to making war against men with steel armor and modern weapons, perhaps. Yet it was still his soul. That was the credo of the Ancient Blades: my sword is my soul. It is not my possession. I am its servant. I will perish, but the blade will survive.

  Had Morget broken Ghostcutter, instead of Bloodquaffer-well, perhaps it was a mercy that Orne had not survived his blade for more than a moment.

  From the battlements of the holdfast on which he sat, Croy could just see Helstrow on the horizon. He could see the tent camps outside the western gate and a hint of movement there. The barbarians had grown bored with the fortress they’d stolen, and were preparing to move on some other hapless target.

  Croy brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Started its journey back toward the point.

  The iron edge was as sharp as he could make it.

  The other edge of the sword was coated with silver, good for cutting through curses and sorcerous magic. When the molten silver had been applied to the sword it was kept just above its melting point, and as a result had run across the blade like molten candle wax, leaving long runners of bright metal in the fuller and across the flat. The silver didn’t require sharpening-that which it cut was not material. Croy inspected the soft silver carefully, though, looking for nicks and dents that might show black iron underneath. These he smoothed over with endless pressure from his own thumb.

  On the horizon, a barbarian on a horse went galloping southward, hurrying for the road to Redweir. It made sense that the learned city there would be the next to come under attack. All power in Skrae rested on a stool with three legs: Helstrow, Redweir, and Ness, the three largest cities and the kingdom’s most defensible walls. Anyone who wished to conquer the kingdom must first break that stability. Cut two of those legs out from under the kingdom and it would topple. Redweir was the obvious choice for the barbarians’ next target for another reason as well. If Morg and his children held Helstrow and Redweir both, they would control the river Strow-and gain the land they had asked for in tribute, and been denied.

  Croy prayed that city would be ready for the battle.

  He knew it would not.

  Still rubbing at the silver with his thumb, he climbed off the merlon he’d been using as a seat and went down the stairs into the open space of the holdfast.

  The structure was not built to be comfortable. It was drafty and damp, and there was nothing inside but a floor of packed earth and a few barrels of salted pork. In times long past, the stone structure had stood in the middle of a farming village. The village had moved on, following more fertile soil, but the holdfast remained, its entrance choked with weeds, its walls green and black with perfectly circular patches of lichen. It still served
its original purpose, however. It was a place where the local villeins could shelter in case of an attack by bandits or reavers.

  It would not have held for an hour against the full force of the barbarian horde. But it was the best Croy had been able to find under the circumstances.

  King Ulfram V lay on a pallet of straw, next to a smoky fire. He had not woken, or moved, since Croy brought him there. Yet he breathed still, and when Croy touched the monarch’s neck, he felt a dull pulse.

  He found a pot and put it over the fire. He made a thin soup, mostly broth with a few carrots and green potatoes chopped in. He put a spoon in the pot, let it cool in the chill air of the holdfast, and then carefully placed it against the king’s lips.

  Very little of the liquid went into Ulfram’s mouth, but the king swallowed reflexively when the warm broth hit the back of his throat. Croy waited a moment, then dipped the spoon in the pot again.

  When he decided the king had swallowed enough of the soup, he pulled a blanket up around the man’s shoulders. He fluffed the wadded-up tunic the king had for a pillow. It was all he could do.

  Then he went back to smoothing the silver edge of his sword.

  Eventually, he dozed. He would not have called it sleep. More like a devotional trance, the same hypnotic reverie Croy fell into during his night-long vigils. He was never totally unaware of his surroundings. His hand’s grip never truly relaxed on the hilt of Ghostcutter.

  So when someone pounded on the door of the holdfast, he scuttled up to his feet in an instant, sword in hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Through the stout oak door, Croy could hear the voices of men outside the holdfast. He could not tell how many of them there were, nor whose men they might be-they could be barbarians, or bandits, or any manner of evil pursuers.

  “I can hear a fire crackling in there,” one man said, quite close to the door.

  “Aye-and I heard clanking armor,” another said, fainter.

  “So what if there’s someone inside?” the first voice argued. “I’m cold, and tired, and hungry. We’ll make short work of ’em and have the place to-”

  Croy wrenched the door open and saw a terrified face staring back at him. He grabbed the man by the throat, then pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him before the others could force their way in. He dropped the bar across the door, sealing it again, then whirled around with Ghostcutter’s point to face the man he’d drawn in.

  The intruder fell backward, to clatter on the floor, his kettle hat sliding down over his eyes. He reached up to move the helmet but Croy batted his hand away with the flat of Ghostcutter.

  “Who are you?” Croy demanded.

  The man seemed too frightened to answer. He was dressed in canvas jack, with iron plates sewn to his elbows and shoulders. He wore a hanger at his belt-more dagger than sword, but deadly enough. The man made no attempt to reach for his weapon.

  Croy placed the point of Ghostcutter against his throat. “You wear the harness of a soldier of the king,” he said. “If you’re true to your coat, you’ll find no enemy here.”

  “G-G-Gavin,” the man choked out.

  “That’s your name, Gavin? Where did you serve?”

  “At Helstrow, milord,” Gavin said. He reached up slowly to adjust the brim of his helmet. Croy allowed it. “You’re Sir Croy!”

  Croy didn’t deny it.

  “Milord, I beg you-have mercy. I only sought shelter here!”

  “And you would have taken it from me, by force of arms,” Croy said, nodding.

  Gavin’s eyes were wide with fright. “How long have you been in here? Since the battle? You don’t know what it’s like out there! The barbarians harry the countryside. They kill any man they find, take any woman. They burn villages and ravage good crop land. Any place with a roof over your head, any place safe, is worth fighting for.”

  “And the king was good enough to give you arms to fight with,” Croy said. He tapped the knife at Gavin’s belt, then the helmet on the soldier’s head. “How many others are with you?”

  “Seven. All that’s left of my company. Please, milord-just let me go in peace.”

  Croy stepped away from the man on the floor. He unbarred the door and cracked it open. Beyond he could see men peering back at him. They looked more frightened than Gavin. “You’ll come inside one at a time, and drop all your weapons as you enter. At the slightest sign of treachery I’ll cut Gavin to pieces. Understood?”

  The men outside nodded eagerly.

  Croy allowed them to file inside. They were filthy after days of crawling through mud, and their pale faces had the haunted eyes of men who’d seen too much bloodshed. They obeyed his instructions, dropping even their belt knives. One had a shield. He made to hold onto it, but Croy smacked it with Ghostcutter so it rang. All of the men jumped at the sound.

  “A shield’s as good as a mace, in the right hands,” he said. “Drop it.”

  The soldier did as he was told.

  “Good,” Croy said. “Now. There’s soup in that pot. If you’re hungry.”

  Six of them fell on the soup, making cups of their hands in the absence of proper bowls. Only Gavin seemed able to resist. Perhaps because he’d seen something so astonishing he’d forgotten his appetite.

  “Sir Croy,” he said, after a moment. “Is that-”

  “Aye,” Croy said, moving to stand over the sleeping form of Ulfram V. “This is your sovereign. You see now why I am so careful about what guests I entertain.”

  Two of the men at the pot broke away to kneel and make the sign of the Lady on their breasts, the proper form of reverence for men of their station. The rest were too hungry-or not devout enough-to stop their feasting.

  “He’s wounded,” Gavin said, his eyes wide.

  “He sleeps. I cannot rouse him. Were any of you apothecaries or herbalists, before you became soldiers?”

  The men stared up at him in incomprehension. No, of course they hadn’t been healers. Croy knew his luck wasn’t running in that direction these days. They had probably been farmers, like ninety-nine men out of a hundred in Ulfram’s army. Like ninety-nine of every hundred men in Skrae. Farmers conscripted, given a day or two of training, and then armed and put to service before they knew what was happening.

  Croy turned away from them. “Eat, Gavin,” he commanded. “What was the last food you had?”

  “A bit of bread three days ago,” the soldier told him. “Thank you, milord.”

  Croy nodded. While Gavin went to the soup pot, Croy sat down by Ulfram’s head. He placed the point of Ghostcutter against the earthen floor and leaned on it, his forehead resting on the pommel. “What news have you of the war?”

  One of the men-not Gavin-answered. “War’s lost,” he said, shaking his head. “The barbarian has all this land for himself, and none dare oppose him.”

  “I saw them sending riders toward Redweir. Scouts before an invading force,” Croy said. “They don’t think it’s over yet.”

  The soldier threw up his hands. “I never been to Redweir. Don’t know nobody down there. Why should I care what happens to them?”

  Croy closed his eyes for a moment. If he could trust these men, if they could stand watch while he slept-but no. Not yet.

  “Has any man seen Sir Hew, or Sir Rory?” he asked.

  The soldiers looked at each other as if afraid to answer. “Everyone says they perished in the rout,” Gavin answered between sips of lukewarm soup. “Of course, they say the same of you, milord. And-And your master, there.”

  “They think him dead?” Croy asked, suddenly looking up. That might actually be the first bit of good news he’d heard. If the general wisdom was that the king had died in the battle, then perhaps the barbarians thought so, too. At the very least that would mean they weren’t actively looking for him.

  “Good, good,” Croy said. “We’ll let them think that until we’re ready to surprise them with the truth. When we’ve gathered our men in secret-all those who survived t
he battle. All those who would stand under the king’s banner. There must be others like you, others who fought and were defeated but not destroyed. Others ready to rise again, true men of Skrae, bloodied but not beaten, and when-”

  He stopped because he’d caught the men looking at each other again. Like they shared a secret they didn’t want to give him.

  Croy frowned but said nothing for a while. He waited until the men had finished eating. Then he asked, quite carefully, “Where was your company posted, during the battle?”

  Gavin looked away as he answered. “We were billeted in the western part of town, in an old almshouse. We didn’t get word that the battle had been joined, not until the barbarian was already inside the gate.”

  Croy nodded. “And when word did come, that the fortress was in full distress. Where did your serjeants send you then?”

  Another conspiratorial glance.

  Croy knew what their shared silence meant. These men had not been part of the fighting. They had probably never had a chance to draw their weapons. If they escaped Helstrow before the barbarians took the western gate, then they must have left even before he himself fled with the king over his shoulder.

  These men weren’t battle-hardened veterans. They were deserters.

  “Never mind, don’t answer,” he said. There were some things he didn’t want to know. Like whether Gavin and his men had deserted the fortress unhindered-or whether they’d had to fight and perhaps kill their own serjeants before they were allowed to go. Whether they were craven cowards, or, much worse, traitors.

  Either way, he knew he would not be sleeping for some time yet. He couldn’t leave the king’s safety in such hands.

  Honor-the vows he’d taken-the principles on which his life was built-all demanded that he bring these men to justice, if they were guilty. That he slay them on the spot. That was the penalty for desertion in every army Croy had heard of.