Velmont wiped at his mouth. “Loophole,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Croy knelt low in the brambles by the side of the road. He could see very little by the thin sliver of the moon, but every time a weed stirred in a night breeze or an owl swept down from the trees on some vicious errand, his whole body tensed and his hand tightened on Ghostcutter’s hilt.
He had only a few troops at his disposal that he could count on not turning around and running at the first sign of danger. He was making a terrible mistake, and he knew it.
He had his orders.
From the trees well south of his position, he heard the cawing of a crow, and knew the time was coming soon. Crows flew by day, and slept at night, like reasonable creatures. That call was the signal that riders were approaching from the direction of Redweir.
There would be four of them, he knew. Four quick scouts, headed back to Helstrow with the news of Redweir’s capture. They would not be Morget’s best warriors, nor would they be berserkers. He was relatively sure of that.
Before long he heard the sound of their hooves chewing up the half-frozen road. He did not see them until they were nearly at the trap. “Now,” he whispered, and behind him there was a sudden, violent motion.
A stout rope leapt out of the road, trailing dust, and snapped taut at neck height. It ran all the way across the road, and if you didn’t know it was there, it was almost impossible to see. It caught the first rider and yanked him backward out of his stirrups to crash on the ground. His horse kept going. The second rider reacted in time not to be throttled, but did foul himself in the line. The barbarian grabbed for a knife to cut himself free.
Behind him two more riders slowed their mounts to a stop.
That had gone far better than Croy had dared hope. Of course, it wasn’t over yet.
What if the message they carried was in the saddlebags of the first horse? he wondered. He would never be able to catch the animal in the dark. If it was smart enough to run all the way back to Helstrow But there were more pressing concerns. “To arms!” he bellowed, and all around him torches flared to life. “Soldiers of Skrae, to arms!”
Croy’s company swept out of the trees, pikestaffs and bill hooks jabbing at the mounted men. Croy unsheathed Ghostcutter and ran toward the man who had fallen. He could see well enough now to count the crosses on the man’s neck, one for each time he’d gone reaving. How many villages had this barbarian put to the torch? How many women had he defiled, how many innocent throats had he cut? He was struggling to get up, to even roll onto his arms. His legs weren’t moving at all-perhaps his back was broken.
Croy had his orders. Ghostcutter flashed down and cut through the man’s throat, almost deep enough to behead him.
The snagged rider wheeled his horse and drew an axe with a long haft. Moonlight shone through quatrefoils piercing the blade. Ghostcutter rang as it parried the first stroke. The rider hauled backward on his weapon to recover and Croy moved in, stabbing upward. The rider fended off his blow, but only by blocking it with his forearm. The sword bit deep into the man’s flesh and blood spattered Croy’s face.
The axe came around a second time, whistling in the air. Croy parried again-Ghostcutter was faster than any axe, no matter how well made. The rider tried to grab at the knight with his injured arm, but his fingers wouldn’t close on Croy’s tabard. Croy stepped in even closer, well within range of the horse’s hooves. He had to finish this quickly. One good jab up into the barbarian’s chest did it, and he rolled away before the half-mad horse could trample him. The rider swayed over in his saddle and was dragged as the animal broke for the fields at the side of the road.
His men had the other two riders pinned but not wounded. The peasant soldiers had no idea how to use their weapons properly. Many of them were probably afraid to actually stab another human being. In another world, in a world the Lady ruled, Croy would have admired their gentility.
This was not that world. He grabbed at his own men and sent them sprawling in the dirt to make his way through their iron ring. The third rider smashed away bill blades with a boar spear and caught pike points on a buckler. He barely had time to notice Croy before Ghostcutter opened the long artery in his thigh. In a minute he would be dead from blood loss-Croy spun around and left him.
One more.
The fourth rider had managed to smash his way through a cordon of polearms. Two of Croy’s men lay in the dust, one with his chest crushed in by a horse’s kick, the other missing half his face from a sword cut. Croy could hear others behind him, wounded and moaning but alive, as the rider broke for the fields and escape.
“Don’t let him get away!” Croy shouted, but he knew he was talking to himself. His men rushed backward, away from the rider’s swinging weapon. In a moment the rider had spurred his horse and dashed off into the fields.
Croy saw the horse of the third rider nearby. The rider was dead in his saddle but hadn’t fallen off yet. He sprang up onto the horse’s back, knocking the rider out of the way with his elbow. The horse bucked and reared but Croy grabbed up the reins in his free hand and viciously kicked the frightened animal in the ribs.
He had his orders. He had to give chase.
Away from the road and the torches, the ground was a gray blur, the rider a smudge in the darkness. Croy could make out only his cloak fluttering behind him and the merest glint of light off his horse shoes as they flashed up again and again. Croy tried to stay hot on the heels of this last rider-as long as he stayed in the barbarian’s trail, his horse wouldn’t break a leg in some unseen mole hill or trip on a half-buried rock. He could hear the booming breath of both horses, hear his own heart beating, but that was all. Up ahead he saw an old barn, stars showing through a hole in its roof. The rider was headed straight for its open door. In the Lady’s name, why? Croy couldn’t guess.
He followed the rider right into the barn, however, and then jumped off the horse because he couldn’t see a thing inside-all was darkness. Was this the rider’s plan, to trap him in this shadowy place and escape while he flailed in the dark?
Apparently not. Croy felt wind on his face and just had time to stagger back as a sword came rushing past him. Maybe the barbarian could see better in the dark, though Croy doubted it. Maybe he thought his only chance was this invisible combat, deadly for both of them-the rider must have watched him dispatching his fellows and wanted to even the odds.
Croy held his breath. Ghostcutter bobbed slightly in his hand, with the rhythm of his heart.
The barbarian’s sword crashed into the armor covering his arm. A lucky blow-it cleaved through the leather joint between the steel plates of his rerebrace and his vambrace and sliced through the rough skin of Croy’s elbow. Had the barbarian been able to see better, and judge the blow more shrewdly, he could have taken half of his arm off with that strike. There was one thing the barbarian hadn’t counted on, though.
It was Croy’s left arm.
Pain seared through him, threatened to extinguish his senses, but he simply clamped his eyes tight shut and held his breath as he listened for the sound of his enemy’s feet moving on the floorboards. There.
Eyes closed, Croy visualized the barbarian’s sword, saw the arm that held it, the chest, the heart of the barbarian Ghostcutter lanced out point first and impaled the man, cleaving through the tight knot of muscle just to the left of the center of the chest.
The barbarian howled in agony, but not for long.
Croy pulled Ghostcutter free of the death wound. He dropped the Ancient Blade on the straw-covered floor of the barn. Dropped to his knees and grasped his wounded elbow.
He did not open his eyes until his men came to find him with their torches, and he saw, for the first time, the face of the man he’d killed.
Or rather, the woman. Her face was painted to the favor of a skull. She had been one of Morgain’s female warriors. Croy had never killed a woman before-not even in self-defense.
But he had his orders.
&n
bsp; Chapter Fifty-Seven
I didn’t want this job, Malden thought. I never asked for it. Surely, this is Cutbill’s punishment upon me. Yet what did I do to him, ever? I worked in his employ, helped to make him rich.
Now he had to clean up the mess Cutbill had left behind.
Loophole had been one of the guildmaster’s favorites, one of his oldest cronies. He was well loved in the guild of thieves. If he was to hang, the guild would tear itself apart-the thieves would blame Malden for the oldster’s death, and they would remove him from office, in a rather pointed fashion.
Malden had no choice but to stop the hanging. He gestured for Velmont to follow him, then hurried out into the night.
The brazen doors of the Ladychapel stood open. Yellow light spilled out across its marble steps. Malden walked in to the smell of incense and the heat of braziers, and for a moment he was dizzy, his thoughts swirling in his head like a whirlpool.
At the altar, Pritchard Hood knelt with his hands clasped in prayer. A single priest dressed in green vestments stood behind the altar, hands lifted in supplication. Behind him a gilt cornucopia glared in the light of a hundred candles.
The air in the church was thick and still. Malden felt like he was wading through molten glass. He was barely aware of Velmont walking behind him.
Pritchard Hood did not stir as Malden approached. The priest stared at the thief, perhaps expecting Malden to desecrate these holy precincts. As bewildered and frightened as he was, Malden knew better than that. He did not know to what extent Hood truly was a zealot, or if he merely had taken up faith in the Lady as a shield, or as a political gambit. It didn’t matter. If he did something rash now-like spilling blood on the altar-he would have a thousand new enemies to contend with.
“Pritchard Hood,” he said.
The bailiff turned slowly, as if still lost in communion with his goddess.
Malden scowled. “You’ve taken an innocent old man.”
“I would hardly call Loophole innocent,” Hood said with a chuckle. “He’s one of the most infamous thieves in Skrae.”
“He’s an old man. He hasn’t stolen so much as a farthing from you or anyone in this city.” Malden crossed his arms in front of him, careful not to let his hand fall to the hilt of Acidtongue where it lay on his hip.
“He got his name by crawling through an arrowslit in the barracks building on Castle Hill. He stole money from the Burgrave’s men.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
Hood smiled, showing all his teeth. “The Lady never forgets evil done unto Her people. You would know that, Malden, if you had any religious instruction. Those who live good lives, by honest means, are rewarded by Her. Those who do evil are punished by Her servants in this world. Servants like me.”
Malden shook his head. “The Bloodgod’s justice is more to my liking. That comes to the poor man and the rich alike. All are judged and tortured for their sins in the pit of souls. Sadu needs no servants to wreak his vengeance for him.”
The priest started to tremble as Malden spoke. “That name is never spoken in this house,” he insisted. “You violate the very stones of this church with your tongue!”
Malden ignored the priest. “Let Loophole go, Hood.”
“Is that a threat, Malden? It means nothing to me. Your thief will hang at dawn tomorrow. And his last words will indict you. The Lady wills it, so let it be done.”
Bile rose in Malden’s throat, but he knew he was beaten here. He could not strike down Hood in the church. Even if he did, it wouldn’t guarantee Loophole’s freedom. But he had to do something. The entire guild of thieves would be watching him. There was no more time for delay, or appeasement, or begging for patience.
As he walked back out of the Ladychapel, he saw there was no more time for thinking either. Half a dozen men stood on the steps, making a rather poor attempt at looking nonchalant. He knew them all-they were thieves, burglars and sharpers and robbers. They were the ones who had never had any confidence in his leadership, and they were here to show him how low his reputation had sunk.
They were all armed.
“Velmont,” Malden said quietly, “can I trust you?”
“What color’s your money?”
“It’s gold, Velmont. Bright gold.”
“You can trust me jus’ fine.”
Still-two against six.
“Gentlemen,” Malden said, nodding at the six.
One of them stepped forward. His name was Tock, and Malden had recruited him into the guild personally. The guild’s recruiting methods were not always gentle. Tock had reason to hate Malden long before Cutbill fled town. “You look tired, Malden. The strain of leadership getting to you?”
“They took Loophole tonight,” Malden said, trying to appeal to camaraderie.
“So we heard. Now there’s a man who deserved your protection. But where were you when he was taken? In a bawdy house, they say, holed up in a private room.”
Malden didn’t bother to explain himself. Cutbill never would have. Of course, Cutbill would have had armed bravos waiting in the shadows, ready to strike as soon as Tock made a move for his knife. “I’m going to get him released. You can help me with that, or you can try to stop me.”
One of the six drew a long cleaver from his belt. Tock opened his hand, palm level with the street. This wasn’t just a bunch of angry thieves, then. It was a crew-organized, if they’d bothered to work out signals. Able to fight as a unit.
Malden and Velmont had never fought back-to-back. He had no idea how the Helstrovian thief would do if it came to that.
“I’ll say again, you can help me,” Malden told Tock.
“You got a plan, Malden?” Tock asked.
“Always,” Malden lied.
“You going up to Castle Hill, to the gaol? You going to sneak in and get Loophole, sneak out again with him over your shoulder?”
Some of the six laughed at the idea. Until that moment Malden had been considering the very thing. Now he needed to rethink.
“No,” he sighed. “That would be folly.”
“Then what’s your grand scheme?”
Malden closed his eyes. And heard singing. The priest inside the Ladychapel was leading the evening hymn service, and Pritchard Hood, his only constituent that night, was lending his voice.
“Ah,” Malden said, because suddenly he had it. “I’m going to say a little prayer.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
It wasn’t easy getting the word out so late in the evening. The honest people of Ness (such as they were) tended to lock their doors after dark and go to sleep early-candles were expensive, and after a long day of work everyone just wanted to rest. The streets weren’t safe after dark, no matter how deserted they might be. Malden had placed his hopes, though, on that segment of the population that made its living after the sun went down.
His thieves came first to Godstone Square, as they had before-alone, mostly. Some expressed quiet support for Malden’s scheme, while others, Tock the foremost among them, had come because they expected it to fail and they wanted to see Malden destroyed. Lockjaw and ’Levenfingers came and stood quite close to the Godstone. Whether they believed in what Malden was about to do or not, they owed Loophole that much. Slag, like all dwarves, was at his most awake after dark, when the sun didn’t burn his eyes. He showed up late, however, and grinned in apology to Malden-then held up ink-stained fingers to explain his tardiness.
Velmont moved pantherish through the crowd of thieves, looking for any sign of treachery. Malden had no doubt he found much, but for the nonce at least the knives stayed concealed.
The thieves were not alone for long. Coming in groups of six or ten for safety, the harlots of Ness arrived with some fanfare, the madams leading their girls in cheers of solidarity. Elody cheered the loudest, but Malden was pleased to find that Herwig had brought every working woman she could find. The House of Sighs must have closed its doors for the night, for the first time in living memory.
; They were not the last to arrive. Malden’s agents had gone deep into the Stink, even to the poorest neighborhoods where thieves weren’t any safer than rich merchants. They had pounded on doors and called out the news in ringing shouts. He had expected a few graybeards and old women to heed the call. He was surprised to see a goodly number of cripples, the sick, and even matronly women who should have known better. Soon the square was so full the crowd spilled out into the surrounding streets, and window shutters flew open as the local residents looked to see what all the clamor was for.
Malden wasn’t ready to start, however. Not until Pritchard Hood arrived.
For much of an hour he waited, standing atop the Godstone just as when he’d addressed his guild, back when Ness had seemed a sane and safe place for a good-natured thief. He said nothing to the gathered folk, other than to welcome them and greet those he knew. He gave them no encouragement. What he was about to do was a solemn act, not the antics of a clown at a harvest season fair. Though never much of a believer himself, Malden was acquainted with the way the old priests of the Bloodgod had acquitted themselves. They had taken their rites most seriously, and he intended to do the same.
When Pritchard Hood did finally arrive, along with six of his burliest watchmen, they shoved their way through the crowd until they stood directly beneath the Godstone. Malden was intrigued to see that the watchmen carried not their usual polearms but mallets and picks. Interesting. It seemed Hood had a demonstration of his own to make.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Malden,” Hood shouted up at him. “This place has been ritually defiled. There’s nothing sacred about this piece of rock.”
Malden smiled down at the man. “You think Sadu cared when the priests of your Lady washed this stone with vinegar and sang their little songs over it? Do you think He even noticed?”
“I think He trembled in His pit,” Hood replied, looking around him. “I think He knew that His time was past, and that the age of the Lady had come.”
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