Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  Cythera nodded as if her mother had spoken, because she knew exactly what she would have said. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I am still clutching to my attachments. I should renounce the bonds of my prior life. That was part of my initiation-to force me to let go of old desires and old bonds. Slag was going to die, and I couldn’t just watch it happen. But I know I should have. If it was his time, then it wasn’t my right to stop what was meant to happen. There may be some reason why he was supposed to die. This project he’s working on, the thing that nearly killed him, by all accounts it’s some miraculous weapon. By saving him maybe I’m introducing something terrible to the world, something that will cause untold suffering. And I let that happen because I cared for him. Perhaps I cared too much.”

  Coruth closed her mouth. Her body shifted in the bed as if she were struggling to sit up, or perhaps to speak. She lacked the strength to do either.

  “A witch can’t afford to favor one life over hundreds, maybe thousands of others. That’s why I can’t be Malden’s lover anymore. I know this-you taught me well. I can only say I’ve learned from my mistake. I paid for what I did.” She reached up and touched her hair. The white streaks would always be there. They would be a permanent reminder of what power cost. “You said that when… when I did it, Malden would never look me in the eye again. But you were wrong, Mother! He looked right into me, right down to my soul, and he saw no corruption there. I made a bad mistake. But not as bad as the one you saw in my future. Your training was enough-it gave me the discipline to use only a little sorcery, just enough to do a good thing.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Mother, I promise now, on my life, on my vows as a witch. I promise I will never make this mistake again. I’ve learned my lesson and I assure you I know just how badly I’ve transgressed. Witchcraft may not be as powerful as sorcery, but it’s clean. It is the only right way to use magic. I know this in my bones. I will die before I make contact with the pit again.”

  She opened her eyes again and found Coruth staring right at her. She couldn’t help herself-she flinched back, away from that gaze.

  “Some,” Coruth said, and then swallowed and squinted as if just saying the word had caused her unbearable pain. “Some demons,” she went on, forcing the words out, “are smaller than others.”

  Cythera reeled backward as surely as if she’d been slapped. “No,” she said, “no. I opened a way between the worlds, yes. But only a tiny crack-not enough to let anything come through. I watched like a hawk for it. I bound the demons I drew power from. There is no way anything could have come through-Mother, I would never allow a demon to come into this world! Even in my moment of weakness, even when I was stupid enough to do this thing, I was strong enough to make sure that didn’t happen!”

  Coruth’s chin bobbed up and down. She was nodding.

  “That’s true,” she wheezed. “It… didn’t. Nothing came through.”

  Relief flooded through Cythera’s veins. If she’d failed, if something had come into the world, she would never have been able to forgive herself. She turned to leave the room, to let Coruth rest peacefully. If she stayed, she knew, her mother would feel forced to admonish her further.

  “Not… this time,” Coruth said, and Cythera’s shoulders slumped as she stepped out of the room.

  Chapter One Hundred Eight

  On the march, it is far too easy to slip into a kind of trance. At first every mile is marked. But there are so many, and each when conquered seems so little, so in time there is only the automatic motion, the necessary action bred into the bone. Croy kept his horse on the road, and kept his pace, and saw little while his mind roamed freely. In his inner vision he saw Cythera, and what might become of her. What might already have happened, and that was all.

  Yet it is the nature of a warrior to be silent much of the time but always ready. When something happens to break the routine, response is instant.

  Ahead on the road a horse reared, and another screamed in panic. Croy fought to keep his own seat. He shot looks around in every direction, trying to see what had happened to break the road’s spell. At first he saw only his own retinue. The Skilfinger knights around him broke ranks to spread out, not waiting for the order to protect the flanks. Drums beat to arms, and Sir Hew galloped forward to stand his horse next to Croy, waving behind him for his standard-bearer to bring up the colors of Skrae.

  Then Croy saw the threat, and he drew Ghostcutter from its sheath in a practiced, effortless motion.

  On every side of them, massed in neat ranks and pike squares, an army of men on foot came across the fields. There were thousands of them. Moving as one they encircled the Skilfinger column and dropped to one knee, setting their polearms as if to receive a cavalry charge. Croy very nearly ordered such a charge, thinking he’d been caught by an ambush of barbarians.

  These soldiers wore no furs, however, instead wrapping themselves in blankets and mantles of cheap homespun. They didn’t carry axes or swords, but instead armed themselves with bill hooks and glaives. Their serjeants held mismatched halberds, while in the midst of the pike squares men with longbows drew and held.

  They carried no flags, nor wore any kind of badges or insignia. And Croy could not see a single knight or captain among their ranks. Who in the Lady’s name were they?

  In the distance someone shouted. Croy peered over the iron blades of the hooks and polearms facing him and saw one mounted man moving through the ambuscade, one man alone on a horse. The homespun soldiers parted to make room for him like waves parting before the prow of a ship.

  When the mounted man drew closer, Croy saw he was dressed in a full coat of plate that gleamed brighter than the snow. The visor of his helmet was down, but atop the helm he wore a simple golden coronet. Croy knew that crown well enough.

  “Tarness,” he shouted, “what is this? Stand aside and let us pass.”

  “Sir Croy,” the Burgrave of the Free City of Ness called back, “I had heard your body was not found at Easthull. I am glad to see you live.”

  Croy had no time for pleasantries. “Move your men aside,” he repeated. He glanced warily at the pike square nearest the road on his left side. If they pressed an attack now he would have a hard time fending them off. His left arm was still too weak to hold a shield. “I have important business to attend to.”

  Tarness walked his horse a bit closer. Behind him, sticking up from his saddle, a lance bobbed in the cold air. It bore no pennon, though it was painted in Tarness’s colors. “There was a time, Croy, when you swore an oath of fealty to me,” the Burgrave said. “Now you give me a command. Is it possible you’ve forgotten who I am?”

  Sir Hew pushed his horse forward, Chillbrand lifted to point at the Burgrave. “Your lord gave you an order, man. He is Sir Croy no longer. He is Croy, regent of Skrae, and your master.”

  “Perhaps,” Tarness answered. “If this land we stand on can still be called Skrae. There are those who would say it is not.”

  Croy’s eyes narrowed. He had heard from his scouts of the Burgrave’s Army of Free Men. He had assumed that like himself they fought for the preservation of Skrae’s monarchy.

  “According to the charter of Ness, this land is mine, to work and profit from as I see fit,” Tarness went on. “It is under my protection. None may pass over these roads unless I permit it.”

  “A charter,” Sir Hew insisted, “signed by a king of Skrae at Helstrow. With the express understanding that royal authority could not be arrogated by any subject.”

  “Yes, a king-at Helstrow. There is no longer a king, at Helstrow or anywhere else. I assume Bethane is queen now, and she named you regent, but I also assume she was never properly crowned by a priest of the Lady. I also assume, since Helstrow is in the hands of the barbarians, that she is not sitting on a proper throne right now.”

  “Both those things are true,” Croy admitted.

  “You see how these things so quickly grow complicated.”

  Sir Hew lifted Chillbr
and as if to signal an attack, but Croy stopped him with one weary gesture.

  “What do you want of us?” he asked of Tarness.

  “To know your intention, first.”

  Croy nodded. Very well. If the man was getting to play at insurrection, he would play along-to a point. “We come to liberate Ness from the barbarians. Will you stand against that goal?”

  “Hardly, since it is my own. We march for the same purpose.”

  Croy sighed. By law he could demand that Tarness fall in with his company and assist him. He was the ranking commander on the field. Yet he sensed that if he tried to enforce that demand he would be met with more obstruction. Tarness was playing a deep game here. Liberating Ness was only the first move. He was already thinking of the next, and the next. Which was only to be expected from the Burgrave. Croy was one of the few people in the world who knew the secret-that it was the soul of Juring Tarness, inside the crown, who spoke to him. Juring Tarness had been a master at games of strategy, both on and off the battlefield.

  Croy realized he had to start thinking strategically himself. The knight he had been would have called an attack and bulled his way through these so-called Free Men. The regent he was must find another way.

  “Let us be allies, then,” Croy said, “and like two oxen pulling a plow, double our strength. Yes?”

  Tarness laughed. “Milord, you think as I do.”

  Croy nodded. Whatever it took to get the road cleared, even if it would cause problems later on. There were plenty more miles to cover before they reached Ness. He fumed with impatience while the Burgrave moved his men away from the road, clearing a path for the Skilfinger mercenaries. It seemed to take all day.

  While the Free Men moved out, the Burgrave brought his horse close enough to Croy’s that they could talk quietly, man-to-man. “I must admit,” he said, “I am glad to see you here. The battle ahead will go hard enough even for our combined strength.”

  “The Lady will aid us, if this is Her wish,” Croy said, uninterested in the other man’s small talk.

  “Of course. Already she has smiled on me. When I heard an army of Skilfingers marched on Skrae, I did not expect you to come this far west. I thought for sure you would go after Helstrow first.”

  Croy glanced at Sir Hew. His fellow Ancient Blade refused to even turn his way, though he must have heard what the Burgrave said.

  “I have my reasons to want Ness secured,” Croy said.

  “Yes, I know,” Tarness agreed. “Reasons of the heart.”

  Croy stiffened in his saddle. Was he really that transparent? Or that besotted? “You speak of-”

  “Of Malden, your friend and bosom companion. I for one should remember the exploits of the knight and the thief. The adventures you two unlikely comrades have shared! You look to save your friend.”

  “I… do,” Croy said. Better the Burgrave think he had come to rescue a friend than a betrothed, perhaps.

  “I’ve just two days ago had a report from a source inside the city. You’ll be glad to hear that Malden lives,” Tarness told him. “More than that-he’s raised himself high in station. They call him Lord Mayor of Ness now, and he commands the city in my absence.”

  Croy could scarcely credit it. His first thought, in fact, was not one of surprise. In the Lady’s name, he’s always been a brazen burglar, but now he’s gone and stolen an entire city!

  “I was as surprised to hear it as you look just now. Considering I had another man in charge of the place when I left. Still, better one of my citizens is running the place than the barbarian, eh?”

  Tarness leaned in close, pleased to be able to share such juicy gossip. His tone was positively prurient as he went on. “I’m told Malden holds out against the foe with the aid of an army of thieves and whores. One can only imagine the debauchery that must rule inside those walls. They say he’s even made his headquarters in a bawdy house, where he lies abed of days with his witch consort, though they remain unmarried.”

  “His witch consort?” Croy asked, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “My good lord Burgrave, I think these stories must have grown in the telling. She is a formidable woman, but Coruth is far too old to be taking up with the likes of Malden.” He couldn’t even picture it, the two of them rutting in bed. Why “I speak not of Coruth but of her daughter,” the Burgrave said, with a laugh of his own.

  Something inside Croy’s head popped like a soap bubble. For a moment he could neither hear nor see nor think. Something impossible had happened, and he was unable just then to even understand the simple words.

  When the moment passed and he could think again, he decided he must have misunderstood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you say again that part about who his consort is? I do believe I misheard you.”

  Tarness lifted the visor of his helm. His face was leering and spiteful-or perhaps that was just his imagination, too.

  “He desports himself most shamelessly with the woman called Cythera,” the Burgrave clarified. “I believe you know her, do you not?”

  Chapter One Hundred Nine

  There was no time to think on all that had happened, no time to think at all. Malden ran from house to house, bashing at the doors, rousing the people inside. “To arms! To arms!” he shouted, and whenever he found a man with two working legs, he sent them forth, to carry the message, to spread the word. “At dawn we fight,” he told them. “At dawn there will be barbarians in Ryewall! To arms!”

  “The priests say we can hold them back,” a boy with a withered leg told him.

  “And so we shall,” Malden insisted, clapping the boy on the back.

  “They say all it will take is giving Him His blood.”

  Malden turned to say something but the boy was already gone.

  He hurried to the arsenal and threw open the great doors. Already a crowd had gathered, perching on the ruins of the university cloister, milling in Market Square, wanting to be the first to get their pick of weaponry. Malden had worried his people would be too afraid to take up polearms and crossbows when the time came. It seemed he’d underestimated their patriotism-or perhaps their terror. They looked ready to fight. They looked ready to kill anyone who dared invade their home.

  He watched them file in and out of the big building, each man and woman brandishing a rusty longaxe or a glaive with a rattling blade as they emerged. The crowd behind them cheered, intent on getting their own means of defending themselves and their families.

  They would fight.

  “For the Bloodgod!” one newly armed man shouted, and a great hurrah went up. “I’ll shed blood in Sadu’s name!” another called.

  As long as they were ready, Malden didn’t care whose holy name they praised. He hurried next across the bridge to the Royal Ditch, to summon the harlots there, and make sure he could count on their bows. “Up on the walls-up to Westwall, and Swampwall. Stay away from Ryewall,” he told Herwig and Elody and all the madams. “It’s going to come down.”

  “Just like that?” Elody asked, her eyes bright with fear. “They’ll magic it down?”

  Malden shook his head. “Don’t ask me how it’s done. It’s dwarven trickery, not magic, though. The one thing we can count on is that it’ll come at dawn.”

  One of the girls, a thin waif with dark circles around her eyes, whispered something to another, who nodded meaningfully.

  “What are you saying?” Malden asked, pointing at the girl.

  Herwig glared at her until she came forward.

  The girl looked at her own feet, not Malden’s eyes. “Just, if it please you, Lord Mayor-we can count on one other thing.”

  Malden sighed. “The Bloodgod?”

  The girl nodded and simpered. “If He’s given the proper sacrifice, we’re told He will smile on us. The proper sacrifice is all-”

  “Hush, you little twit,” Herwig chided. “Pay no mind, Malden. There’s those among us who know better.”

  Malden frowned, not fully understanding. It sounded like the priests of Sadu had b
een hard at work, spreading some mischief. Maybe they had called for human sacrifice at last. He should try to stop that, but he hadn’t time at the moment to winkle out the mystery. He hurried on, through the eastern edge of the Stink. He used the rooftops to make his way quickly through that district, where criers were out calling all to arms. Many citizens, it seemed, had congregated in Godstone Square, perhaps looking for someone to tell them where to go. A priest was there, handing out loaves-surely the last of the food. Fair enough, Malden thought. Better to go into battle and die on a full stomach. He headed onward to the work yards of the Smoke, where he’d had the guilds working night and day on defensive engines. There had been diagrams of such in Rus Galenius’s Manual, improbable constructions of wood designed to slow, if not stop, an invading army. Great logs studded with spikes and mounted on wheels, to act as mobile barricades. Leather bellows that could squirt flaming oil across an invader’s path and force them back. Mantlets, giant wheeled shields behind which crossbowmen could shelter while they reloaded their weapons. “Get these moving toward Ryewall,” Malden called. “I don’t care if they aren’t finished, just shift them.”

  A former journeyman in the wheelwright’s guild saluted him and promised he’d have the engines in place on time if he had to drag them himself. “Sadu helps those who help themselves,” he said, and gave Malden a knowing wink.

  Malden had been about to race away, but he stopped himself. “I get the sense you’re saying more than you’re saying, if you catch me right.”

  “Less said the better,” the journeyman said, and chuckled. “Just know, Lord Mayor-we all appreciate what you’ve done for us. And what you’re going to do, on the morrow.”

  Malden was more confused than ever. “You’re welcome, then,” he said. “I hope tomorrow you’ll feel the same way.” Riddles! Too many riddles. There was so much left to do.

  And so little of it that could make any difference. The barbarians wouldn’t be stopped by a rabble of townsfolk, no matter how desperate they were. Morget wouldn’t stop until everyone was dead, everyone No. He would not give in to despair. Slag had been right. You had to keep fighting, or give in. And if he decided to give in now he would just go hide in some quiet place and shiver in fear and wait to be slaughtered. Keeping busy at least kept him from unmanning himself.