The Silver Thief

by Edward W. Robertson

  "I preserve the truth," the old woman replied. "As long as it outlasts me, my dignity means nothing."

  Cord kneeled in front of her. "Then climb aboard."

  The Keeper climbed her back, hooking her bony heels around Cord's hips. Cord stood, shifted the Keeper on her back, and stepped into a light jog. Naran kept up, swinging his wounded leg stiffly. The first time Dante saw a rat, he slew it with a needle of nether, then reanimated it and sent it bounding forward. After half a mile, it spotted a formation of bluecoats marching down the street in the general direction of their group. Dante alerted Cord, who changed course.

  As twilight took the city, Cord brought them to a structure that resembled the bones of a temple or shrine, with fifteen-foot stone posts supporting graceful arches. It was roofed in stone, but there were no walls besides the posts themselves. Cord crossed beneath an arch. On the other side, a wide stairway descended into darkness. The air flowing up from it was cool and smelled equally of mustiness, aquatic rot, and fresh water.

  "This way," Cord said. "Don't slip."

  She set the Keeper on the ground and moved down the stairs, holding lightly to a rope on the wall that served as the bannister. With each step they took down, the arches above loomed higher and higher.

  "What is this place?" Blays whispered.

  "The town well," Cord said. "The rains are as fickle as young lovers' hearts. They stay away for months at a time. When they do come, we have to be ready to catch them."

  During the first twenty feet of the descent, the steps were dry and gritty. As they moved beneath the overhanging rock, the steps grew slick with mold. The air smelled like a stagnant pond. Ahead, the stairs split two ways. Cord took the left fork. Dante got out his torchstone, lighting the way forward. After another set of stairs, a pool of green water spread before them.

  Blays leaned forward and sniffed, scowling. "This is your reservoir? No wonder you people drink so much beer."

  "Better to drink this than cups of nothing." Cord kneeled and touched the water's surface. "At the bottom of this pool, there is a passage. It leads to another pool inside the butte. Past that, a dry tunnel leads to the caves on the road up the cliffs."

  "We have to swim?" Dante said. "How far are we talking?"

  "No more than a few hundred feet."

  "No more than enough to repeatedly drown us?"

  "You complain about having to swim in the dry season?" Cord tipped back her head and laughed, the noise echoing loudly. "After the winter storms, swimming to the other side can only be done by those whose lungs are as big as their hearts."

  Naran leaned on his good leg. "Are you sure the other side is clear?"

  "Am I dripping water everywhere? Do I look like I've been to the other side today? As with all things, to know, you must do."

  With admirable swiftness, Cord stripped down until she was wearing nothing but her smallclothes and a long knife. She flexed her copious muscles and waded down the steps into the pool. She swam to the far edge of the water, inhaled deeply several times, and plunged beneath the surface.

  Dante nudged Naran's shoulder. "I think it's time I healed your leg. Would hate to lose you down there."

  "I always imagined it would be the water that killed me." Naran eyed the stagnant pool. "But in my imagination, it was the ocean, not the town well."

  Nether lay thickly in the moss and mold. Dante brought it to the gash on Naran's leg, sealing it back together until no more than a light scar remained on his skin.

  Ten minutes later, with no sign of Cord, Dante was beginning to think she'd succumbed to the waters. As he contemplated finding a minnow to kill and send to look for her, bubbles popped on the surface of the pool. Cord emerged, gasping, water spattering from her body. She carried a rope in her hand.

  "The path is clear all the way to the road." She cast down the rope. "Follow the rope, and it'll show us to our freedom."

  She gathered her clothes and weapons, including her wheel.

  "Okay, I'll say it," Blays said. "Four of us are young and healthy. One of us, however—while no doubt wise and charming—is a ninety-year-old woman who had to be carried here. You expect her to hold her breath all that way?"

  Cord shrugged her damp shoulders. "So I will carry her again."

  "Ah. And where would you like your remains to be buried? Or should we just leave them at the bottom of the pool?"

  The Keeper waved her gnarled hand. "I've taken care of myself for more than a century, you numbskull. I can take care of myself for a few minutes more."

  Blays blinked, thoroughly rebuffed. Light glowed around the Keeper's fingertips, the ether condensing like warm wax. She spun it between her fingers, then inhaled. Tiny sparks fluttered into her mouth. Cord grinned and swam to the back of the pool, holding onto the rope all the way. Blays followed her out. Dante came third, with Naran fourth and the Keeper bringing up the rear. The water was jarringly cold. Fully dressed, with a sword on his hip, Dante found it hard to stay above water.

  Then again, he wasn't supposed to.

  Cord and Blays took deep breaths, then plunged under the water. Dante clamped the torchstone between his left ring finger and pinky and followed them down. Bubbles fluttered past him. He pulled himself hand over hand along the rope, kicking his feet. Beneath him, Cord and Blays disappeared into a tunnel at the bottom of the pool.

  Dante hauled himself after them, entering a tunnel of unknowable length. Behind him, Naran kept pace, but the glow of the Keeper's hands grew dimmer and dimmer. With his pulse thumping in his head and his lungs beginning to burn, Dante had no choice but to press on.

  By the time his lungs began to scream, Cord and Blays vanished upward. The tunnel opened into a broad pool. The torchstone's light shimmered on the underside of the water. Dante kicked his way up and surfaced.

  "Lyle's balls," he said, spitting water; Naran swam up beside him. "Couldn't you have made your secret escape route a little less murderous?"

  Cord scoffed. "That sounds like a fine way for the Mallish to find it and use it against us. Now get out of there. That water is for drinking, not swimming."

  Dante waded ashore and stripped off his shirt, wringing it dry. The four of them stood at the pool's edge, watching the water for signs of the Keeper. At last, white light shined from the bottom of the pool.

  The old woman slogged up the stony bank, her robes trailing heavily behind her. "I will remember this day. I haven't swum in even longer than I've felt the sun."

  "This way," Cord said, striding down the only way forward. "The top of the cliffs are filled with the enemy, but the bottom is unguarded."

  The passage led out to a silent cobbler's shop. As the others gathered around the door, Blays shadowalked out for a look at the cliffs.

  He reappeared within a minute. "It's like Cord said. Nothing between us and the desert."

  Outside, night had fallen over the land, taking the warmth with it. On his way down the switchback, Dante shivered in his damp clothes. They reached the bottom of the road without drawing any shouts or alarms. The town at the base of the butte was eerily silent. They hurried through it, taking a southern fork in the road toward a town called Tanner, which Cord said was only a few miles away.

  Once the last shacks of Collen were behind them, Blays turned, grunting. Atop the butte, fires crackled, casting sheets of smoke across the bare sky.

  16

  Raxa walked through the city. It was early afternoon and Gaits was at her side, but being in the company of others from the Order only made her feel less safe. The people who'd burned down the Marrigan were still out there.

  But when Kerreven called, you answered.

  Gaits led her to a tenement on the fringe of the Sharps. They climbed to the fourth floor, where two men played dice in the hall. Seeing Gaits, they nodded—Faddie and Jenker, muscle from the Order.

  Gaits knocked a code into an unmarked door. It opened, revealing two more of the Order's brutes. They took Gaits and Raxa to a back room. There, a man sat
at a small wooden table. He wore plain, loose clothes, but his long black hair and trim beard looked like something you'd see on a wealthy merchant or minor noble. His eyes, though—these were as brown and hard as two agates.

  He jerked his chin at the chairs across from him. Raxa and Gaits sat.

  "Raxa Dosse," Kerreven said. "Do you know this? You've earned more for me in the last two months than most of my people have made me in their entire lives. Shouldn't we have met already?"

  "I didn't need an audience with you." She scooted her chair an inch forward. "Just my cut of the cash."

  He chuckled. "Gaits said you were like this. Pure alley."

  "That a bad thing?"

  "For me? I always need people who don't look any further than the end of their knife. For you? Depends if that makes you happy."

  Raxa held his gaze. Kerreven's words carried a slight Setteven accent. According to the story, he'd grown up there as a lesser noble, moving to Narashtovik and eventually taking control of the Order a few years before Galand and Callimandicus had revived the city. Beyond that, Raxa didn't know much about the man. Nothing she'd swear to. Rumors flew like flocks of starlings, though, which Raxa suspected was intentional. When people had to choose which rumors to believe about you, they normally went with whatever sounded scariest.

  Which meant your average thug off the street thought that Kerreven liked to dine on stray dogs while lutists he'd blinded played him songs on instruments strung with the guts of his foes.

  Raxa thought the truth was more humdrum. For one thing, though his was the three-syllable name of an aristocrat, she'd once seen a bundle of letters in his quarters. They'd come from Setteven, but they were addressed to someone named Karr Vanes. Gaits sometimes made offhanded comments about his boss as well. Piecing these together, Raxa had the idea that Kerreven had grown up like her and most of the others in the Order: streetside, no money or honor to their name.

  Which meant that somehow, he'd gone from an urchin in Setteven to the most powerful figure in the Narashtovik underground.

  "You sound," Raxa said, "like you're about to make me an offer."

  Kerreven sat back, smirking. "Here's what we know. The swords you tracked down? They were made for an outfit called the Army of Crows."

  "They sound familiar."

  "They should. Mercenary outfit that formed up during the Chainbreakers' War? For a while, they were selling their swords in Gallador. Backing merchants against their rivals. Then they got greedy. Stole from a caravan they were supposed to be guarding. Do you know what they do to people like that in Gallador?"

  "Part their bones from their skin?"

  "And then sell both bones and skin to the highest bidder. Rather than be sold for soup stock, the Crows took flight. They've been roosting here for a few months. Did you know the attackers lost seven men at the Marrigan? Do you know where the bodies were taken?"

  She shrugged. "The nearest sewer?"

  "The carneterium. I paid a monk to get one of our people inside. She identified two of the bodies as Crows."

  "I thought you'd linked the swords to the Crows."

  Kerreven gave her a skeptical look. "We're talking about war, aren't we? Would you go to war without being damn sure you were fighting the right enemy?"

  The man had a habit of peppering his speech with questions. On the surface, it was intended to get you to think your way through the answer. To Raxa, it felt more like he was leading you down the precise path he wanted you to follow.

  She leaned forward. "So who hired the Crows?"

  "The obvious question. We've done some digging. The leader of the Army of Crows? A man named Bennel. Would you believe me if I told you Bennel's cousins with Vart Dracks?"

  Raxa's jaw dropped. "Lieutenant for the Little Knives?"

  Kerreven nodded deeply. "I think they're making a run at us. But we need more than that to declare war. I need to be sure it was the Knives."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I want you and Gaits to pay Vart a visit. Search his house. And bring him to me."

  "I can do that. What do I get out of it?"

  The man snorted. "Do you think they're done with us? What do you get out of this? You get to survive."

  When they were back down in the street, Gaits glanced up at the fourth floor, then at her. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "You just met the man who runs one of the five most powerful institutions in the city. Did you leave that encounter with any particular impressions?"

  "I liked his beard," Raxa said. "Now let's work. We know who did this. Every second they're alive is a second they don't deserve."

  * * *

  The carriage rolled toward the two guards dressed in black and silver. Raxa straightened her back, the starched collar of her dress rubbing against her throat. The dress was supposed to be the height of the summer's fashion, but some idiot had cut it to reveal her belly and a dangerous portion of her lower ribs, requiring her (and everyone else who had to keep up with the season's trends) to also wear a tight-fitting shirt (of contrasting color—again, as per trend) in order to maintain her modesty.

  She would admit it looked dashing. But given the summer heat, the dress and its multiple layers had obviously been invented by someone who'd never had to wear the gods damned thing himself. As the carriage passed the city guards, sweat trickled down her brow. Not the look she was looking for.

  The soldiers watched, bored, as the vehicle rattled past.

  "Told you," Gaits murmured. "Want to be rich? All you have to do is dress the part."

  The carriage turned, hooves smacking the cobbles. Manors rose on both sides, separated by small but impeccable yards. The air was dense with the smell of flowers, but she couldn't have named most of them.

  Gaits nudged her hip. "That's it. The small one."

  In this case, "the small one" meant the manor's main wing was only two stories rather than three, though a steep-roofed turret provided its residents the same view as its neighbors. A gated iron fence protected it from unwanted traffic. They continued past to the north. Three blocks away, they rocked to a stop.

  "Take your time," Gaits said. "In this fine carriage and equally fine suit, I'm a man about town. Nothing for the city watch to be concerned about."

  Raxa nodded. Lars, the driver, dismounted and opened her door. He swung down the hinged steps from the running board, offering her a hand. Once she'd gotten outside, she tugged her dress straight and continued north. She was presently on Denner Street, known proverbially as Make-Good Lane for its reputation as a place where those who'd built their wealth in disreputable ways spent it to buy reputability.

  During her search for a house, she'd looked at Make-Good Lane herself. And discovered that, while its residents liked to put on a good face, they also maintained a back alley. The kind you'd use for the delivery of anything you didn't want visible on the main street.

  She turned down the alley. The dress' airy skirts fluttered behind her, only rarely snagging on the scabbard strapped tight to her thigh. She counted down houses until she stood behind Dracks'. Its rear was gated the same as the front. Raxa stepped into a cluster of tall, conical shrubs. Amidst the citrusy smell of their blossoms, she entered the other world.

  Silver shined from the shadows of the shrubs. She moved to the gates and climbed them easily; in the netherworld, she felt so light she wasn't sure her feet would leave prints in the snow. She landed in the yard and approached the manor.

  She'd tried walking through every substance people had thought to make buildings out of. Wooden boards. Plaster walls. Metal doors. All of it was as solid and impassible in the shadows as it was in the normal world. Thank the gods that the rich liked to build their houses out of solid stone. She walked straight through the wall.

  And into a sitting room. The house was dark, quiet. Hidden in the shadows, she ran from room to room. Two men sat in the hall beyond the foyer. Swords on hips. The rest of the lower floor was empty. Upstairs, a young girl
and a young boy slept in separate rooms. Dracks snored in his bed. No sign of a wife.

  With time ticking down, she ran to the hall downstairs, unsheathed the bone sword, and moved behind one of the men. A moment of remorse tugged at her guts. These men were just pieces shuffled across the board by the players. No different from her.

  They just happened to be on the wrong side.

  Raxa cocked the blade and shifted back into being. She swung. The edge clipped through the man's neck. Across the table, the other bodyguard jerked back against his chair. Raxa jumped onto the table. As the bodyguard fumbled for his sword, her angled downward stroke cleaved through the right side of his neck and exited his left shoulder.

  The bodies slumped to the ground. Blood unspooled over the stone floor, leeching into the patterned rug. She stared up at the ceiling, listening. The house was as still as ever. She cleaned and sheathed her sword. She took the loop of keys from the belt of one of the guards, unlocked the front door, walked to the gate, and keyed it open. Gaits and Lars walked through.

  Gaits raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

  "Had to stiff two guards," she said. "There's two kids upstairs. Dracks is sleeping alone."

  "Lars, watch the upstairs hall. Raxa, you're with me."

  They headed upstairs. Raxa pointed out the kids' rooms to Lars, who leaned against the wall and got out a length of thin rope. Gaits drew a narrow-bladed sword. Raxa got out a dagger. Gaits opened the door to Dracks' room.

  The man didn't wake until Gaits leaned over his bed and put a hand over his mouth.

  "Mr. Dracks," Gaits said. "You will notice I have a sword. My partner is likewise armed. I am going to take my hand away from my mouth. You may scream, if you like, or try to fight us. And then you're going to bleed to death in this incredibly nice bed of yours. Or! You can be quiet, and live. Do you understand?"

  Dracks nodded. Gaits removed his hand, keeping the point of his blade on Dracks' chest.

  "Who are you?" Dracks said.