A thief in the night abt-2

by David Chandler

  “Yes, yes, it must be vanquished. But they hardly need my help with that. The two of them have their magical swords. They’re perfectly adequate to the task.”

  Cutbill shrugged dismissively. “Still, I can see why they’d like to have someone along to take care of the traps. A sword-even a magical sword-is of little use to a man who has fallen into a bottomless pit. But you turned down their offer, quite reasonably. It does sound like a dangerous undertaking.”

  “Positively foolhardy,” Malden agreed.

  “Quite. Though I imagine that for Sir Croy the risk is half the reward. This will give him the chance to prove, once again, just how heroic he is. He’ll reap a great bounty of honor and glory.”

  “I suppose such things are what you desire if you’re a titled man’s son, and there is no need to ever work a day in your life.”

  “I imagine that would be nice,” Cutbill said.

  “He’s going to get himself killed. Him and the barbarian both. As for Morget, well, good riddance. That man is a threat to decent society. It’s just a matter of time before he kills someone just being here in the city.”

  “It’s for the best, then, that he leaves soon.” Cutbill put down his pen and rubbed his chin. “And yet I do not wish him ill.”

  “Well, of course not,” Malden said, raising one eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Cutbill was on about but he could tell the man was already forming a scheme. “I mean, at the very least, I hope he survives long enough to save us all from the demon, but-”

  Cutbill lifted his pen for silence. “Hmm. He wants someone to deal with the Vincularium’s traps. I’ll have to think of someone I could send his way. Just in the interest of getting him out of my town faster.”

  “Much joy it gives them both, I hope. I’ll have nothing to do with this tomb. As I told them, in no uncertain terms. Of course, then Croy had to go and suggest the place was full of treasure. As if that was all it would take to make my ears prick up. There’s more to life than money.”

  “There is?” Cutbill asked, as if he’d never considered the possibility.

  Malden had to think about that for a moment. “Yes, there is. There’s living to spend it.”

  “Interesting,” Cutbill said. He picked his pen back up. “Just the other day, you were telling me that you needed a large sum of money for a specific reason. Tell me, how is that project going?”

  “I thought it was dashed to pieces,” Malden admitted, thinking of Cythera. She had not signed the banns of marriage after all. “But there may be some new hope. All the same, there are easier ways to get the money to buy a house than crawling around in haunted tombs.”

  “Most assuredly. Though… I might suggest, Malden, that you go and ask someone about the Vincularium. Specifically, about who is buried there.”

  “Some moldy old king or other, I have no doubt,” Malden said.

  Cutbill frowned. “The treasure is likely to be… considerable.”

  “The entire interior of that mountain might be made of gold, for all I care. I’m no grave robber.”

  “Ah. So it’s because of your deeply felt respect for the dead that you won’t go.”

  Malden wrestled with himself. He didn’t ordinarily lie to Cutbill. The man had a way of seeing through to the truth no matter how honeyed a tale one spun. This time, however, he found himself completely incapable of telling the truth.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Very good,” Cutbill said. If he believed Malden or not didn’t seem to matter. He wrote in silence for a while, then put down his pen and folded his hands in his lap. Malden had worked for Cutbill long enough to know what that meant. He was about to do something devious. “Malden. Would you do me a favor? Go out to the common room and ask Slag if he would be kind enough to come in here for a moment.”

  “Certainly,” Malden said. He was mostly just glad not to be the object of the guildmaster’s plotting. Outside, he found Slag constructing a boiled leather cuirass, laying long strips of hardened leather across a stiffened shirt and then affixing them in place with paste. When Malden approached him, he cursed volubly, but after a moment the dwarf came trooping along after him into Cutbill’s chamber. He had a scowl on his face, as usual, but he had always been an obedient employee.

  “This had better be good. My glue’s getting tacky.”

  “It will only take a moment, I assure you,” Cutbill said. “Malden here has turned up a very interesting piece of information. It seems there’s a barbarian in town who is forming a crew to go and open the Vincularium. I thought that would be of some small interest to you.”

  The scowl went slack on Slag’s face. “Huh,” he said.

  Malden rubbed at his chin. He’d never heard the dwarf stymied for a curse before. What was Cutbill up to?

  Slag failed to give the game away. He stood there looking pensive but said nothing more. Eventually Cutbill looked up and gave the dwarf a pointed look. “That’s all. You may return to your work.”

  Slag nodded and turned to go. He stopped before he reached the door, however, and turned to address Cutbill. “Sir,” he said. Malden had never heard the dwarf use an honorific before. Interesting. “Sir, if it’s all right with you. Well. You know I’m in here every fucking day, and most nights. I work hard, don’t I? And I serve you well. I haven’t even been sick a day for-how long?”

  Cutbill tilted his head to one side as if trying to remember. Then he stuck his thumb in the ledger book and opened it to a page quite near its beginning. “Seventeen years,” he said, after consulting a column of numbers.

  The dwarf nodded. “Aye. Well. I think, suddenly, I might be coming down with somewhat. Somewhat lingering.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Cutbill said. The look on his face was not what Malden would call sympathetic, but then he couldn’t imagine Cutbill showing fellow feeling for anyone. “You’d better go home, then, until you feel well again. Take as much time as you need. I don’t care if it takes weeks and weeks.”

  “Thank ye, sir,” Slag said, and left the room.

  When he was gone, Malden stared at the guildmaster of thieves. “What was that about? What’s he after?”

  “Like I said, Malden, you might do some asking around about the Vincularium. In this case, it might interest you to know who built it. Of course,” Cutbill said, and flipped back to his current page, “it matters not. Since you have already made up your mind not to go.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Croy and Morget set about at once outfitting themselves for the journey. There were so many things to buy-a wagon to carry their gear, supplies to make camp in the wilderness, lanterns and climbing gear for inside the Vincularium. Croy had rarely been as happy or excited as when he looked over the growing pile of equipment.

  Of course, Morget had no money, so Croy had to pay for everything, but that did little to dampen his enthusiasm. He’d always considered money to be something you spent, not something you hoarded. He was glad to foot the bill for such an important endeavor.

  While he arranged for the packhorses they would require, he was approached by a messenger with a letter from Cythera. He blushed, having almost forgotten the events of the previous day, when he’d come close to marrying her. Her message said she wished to meet with him and discuss a matter of importance-almost certainly about the banns, he decided. He sent the messenger back with instructions on where she should meet him.

  Croy was just trying on a new brigantine when Cythera arrived at the armorer’s shop. He glanced up at her with a smile and turned the doublet inside out, showing her the thin plates of bright case-hardened iron inside the canvas.

  “Of course, this will be little use against a demon,” he said as she came and took his hands in greeting. “Especially this one, which can simply flow through the cracks between the plates. Yet there may be bandits along the way, and other dangers yet unguessed once we get inside the Vincularium.” He everted the doublet again and showed her the elaborate pattern of brazen rivets that held the plates
fast. “Rather beautiful in its way, hmm? But of course, one doesn’t choose armor for how it looks.”

  “Perhaps you’ll marry me in it,” she told him, then leaned close to whisper, “of course, you must remove it before the wedding night, or I shall be quite sore the next morning.”

  He flushed red and stepped away from her. Picking up a round shield, he held it high between them. “Now, this will stop any blow. Yet it’s light as a buckler, made of basswood in overlapping strips, then faced with boiled leather. Truly exquisite craftsmanship. As you would expect from a dwarf of Snurrin’s reputation.”

  The proprietor of the shop bowed low, his head dropping nearly to the level of Croy’s ankles. “Your very presence in my shop only serves to enhance my meager fame, Sir Knight.”

  The armorer looked like any other dwarf from Croy’s experience, with corpse-pale skin (dwarves shunned the sun’s rays, being subterranean by natural inclination) and a tangled mass of dark hair sticking up from his scalp. Yet he had never heard a dwarf speak so prettily-or with such couth. Normally they swore oaths and laced their sentences with profanity as much as did sailors. It was the reason Croy patronized Snurrin. Though the dwarf was known to be the most expensive armorer in the Free City, Croy knew he wouldn’t be embarrassed by strong language while picking out his panoply.

  “I’ll want to see this brigantine proofed, of course, but I think it will suit,” Croy said. He smiled sheepishly and then let out a little laugh. “Ha, I have made a jest, I think. This suit of armor, you see, will-”

  “Fie!” the barbarian shouted, coming out of a fitting room near the back of the shop. He was naked save for a pair of faulds that wouldn’t quite buckle around his waist. For a man as large as Morget that was a lot of nudity. “Have you nothing big enough for a real man? Or do you make armor only for tiny creatures like yourself, shopkeep?”

  Croy saw Cythera staring at the barbarian and took her elbow to lead her toward the back of the shop. There was a yard behind the main building, where a number of Snurrin’s human apprentices were cleaning hauberks and coats of plate. To get the blood and sweat and less identifiable substances out of the metal armor, they loaded each piece in a barrel full of sand wetted down with vinegar, then rolled the barrels endlessly back and forth across the yard.

  “A rather tedious method of doing one’s laundry,” Cythera observed.

  “Armor must be cleansed after every battle or it rusts. I expect you to have little knowledge of what it’s like to wear a rusty hauberk, but I assure you, it’s unpleasant,” Croy told her. He could remember plenty of times in the field when he’d had no chance to keep his mail clean. The chain mail had chafed his skin until it was red and raw. “But this is what I brought you to see.” He led her to a wooden post mounted near the back of the yard. A crosspiece stood at its top and padding wrapped around the two beams of wood, while a hank of straw had been nailed to the top like a wig. It looked to Croy like an emaciated scarecrow. He slipped the brigantine over the wooden form and then took Cythera back to a table near the door where wine and three cups had been provided. There was even an awning to keep the sun off the two of them while they waited. In short order, Morget emerged from the shop, holding a barbute helmet big enough to make soup in. It looked like it might just fit his massive head. It had a sharply pointed nasal and an elaborate aventail of mail to protect the neck.

  “This is all he had,” Morget said with a shrug. “I’ve never favored armor anyway. It’s always too heavy and slows a man down.”

  Snurrin came out of the door next, a broad-brimmed hat on his head to protect his eyes from the sun. He held a crossbow in his arms that was almost as big as he was. The dwarf did not seem overly taxed, however, with the work of cranking the bow to its full extension, or with loading a heavy quarrel. He mounted the weapon on a forked stand, sighted on the brigantine, and bowed.

  “Perhaps you’ll do the honors?” he asked Morget.

  The barbarian waved one lazy hand. “You go ahead.”

  The dwarf frowned in shame and looked to Croy.

  “He can’t do it,” the knight said. “I imagine you don’t know about Skraeling history. We signed a treaty with the dwarven king many centuries ago, back when we finished off the elves. Until that time men and dwarves were only the loosest sort of allies, you see, and after the long and wearying battle we waged against the elves we had no desire to fight another. So the dwarves kept their kingdom, and their borders were guaranteed, but in exchange they had to agree never to harm a human being. Now all dwarves are forbidden by both law and honor to use weapons-even the weapons they build themselves. It’s part of our alliance with them.”

  The barbarian looked confused. “But how do they defend themselves, then?”

  Croy laughed. “Why would they need to do that? We protect them. In fact, we made it a law that any man who harms a dwarf is subject to being roasted alive. I assure you, the dwarves of this city are the safest of all its citizens. No one would ever rob them or harm a hair on their heads.”

  The barbarian squinted at the dwarf. “You agreed to that? Really?”

  Snurrin smiled and bowed low again. “I assure you, sir, I was not personally consulted, seeing that I was not to be born for many centuries. But I find the arrangement quite suits my taste. It’s a dangerous world and I am most grateful for the protection the laws offer me.”

  Cythera smiled knowingly at the barbarian. “They make it sound so very courtly and noble, don’t they? Don’t let them fool you. There’s a reason the king of Skrae keeps his dwarves so close to his bosom. They’re the only ones who know how to make good steel. If he wants proper weapons and armor, he has no choice but to appease them.”

  “That’s interesting,” Morget said. “Quite interesting. Very well, then.” The barbarian stepped up to the mounted crossbow and squeezed the trigger.

  With a resonant thwock, the quarrel slammed into the brigantine just to the left of center, high up on the chest. For a moment it stuck out straight from the armored doublet, but then drooped and fell away.

  “Oh, well made, well made,” Croy said, jumping up and applauding vigorously. He rushed over to the brigantine and stuck a finger through the hole the quarrel made in the canvas. “The plate beneath is barely dented!” he called back.

  “I’ll hammer it out anyway,” Snurrin insisted. “Now, for the shield and yon basta-yon warrior’s helm,” the dwarf said, nearly slipping into vulgarity, if not an outright obscenity.

  The shield and the barbute were mounted on the wooden form, and Snurrin began to crank his bow back to tension.

  “Croy,” Cythera said, grasping the knight’s hands.

  He squeezed her hands in return but his eyes were fixed on the shield. He barely heard her, for he was working out in his head what device he would put on it. As a knight errant, he was not permitted a proper heraldic coat of arms but he could paint it with some element of his family crest. Some way for anyone who saw him holding it to know who he was.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” Cythera went on.

  “Hmm?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s what your message said. I’m sure we have much to talk about concerning the wedding and such. What is it in particular you wished to discuss, my pet?”

  Morget stepped in to fire once more. The crossbow’s string thrummed with pent-up energy waiting to be unleashed. “It’s not about the banns.” Cythera took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve decided I’m going with you.”

  The quarrel leapt from the bow and smacked into the shield, this time sticking in place with its deadly point fully penetrating.

  “I–I beg your pardon?” Croy asked, turning in his seat.

  She had his full attention now. “I’m going with you to the-” She glanced over at the dwarf to make sure he wasn’t listening. “-to the Vincularium. I will accompany you and Morget.”

  “I can’t permit that.”

  Cythera frowned. She must have known he would say as much. He was sworn
to protect helpless women, the aged, and the infirm. There was no way he could take her into a place of danger.

  “As your husband-” he began, but she shook her head.

  “You are not my master yet,” Cythera said. “Once I sign the banns, you will own me like chattel. That is the law. But until that moment, I make my own decisions.”

  “That’s… true,” Croy admitted. He liked this not at all. “Yet I am also leading this expedition, and I will choose who accompanies me.”

  “I thought this was Morget’s quest,” Cythera pointed out.

  “Aye,” the barbarian grumbled, making Croy jump. He must have forgotten Morget was in earshot.

  “Then tell her she cannot come,” Croy insisted. “Questing’s not for women. It just isn’t done!”

  Morget shrugged. “In my land, our women accompany us whenever we travel.”

  “But you’re nomads! And from what I’ve heard, your women are nearly as big and strong as you.”

  “Aye,” the barbarian said, with a wistful look in his eye. “They’re huge.”

  “This is completely different,” Croy demanded. “Cythera, this won’t be like a coach ride to the next village over. This is going to be a demanding trek through wild lands full of danger. And then there are the perils of the Vincularium itself.”

  “Aye, a place full of ancient curses.” She held up her left arm and showed him the writhing painted vine that wrapped around her wrist. It was longer than when he’d seen it last.

  He understood her meaning, of course. Coruth, her mother, had gifted Cythera with the perfect charm against both curse and enchantment. When magic was directed toward her, she absorbed it into her skin in the form of what appeared to be tattoos. Later on she could discharge it as well, once sufficient malefic energy had been stored.

  “Cythera, I beg you, forget this folly,” he said. “The place we go to is one of the most dangerous in all of Skrae-in all the world. If something happened to you there how could I go on living? How could I ever forgive myself? I love you more than my own life.”