Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

  “It’s done,” a voice behind Bikker said, startling him. “The crown has left Castle Hill. Good.” Bikker did not turn to see who was speaking. His employer had been quite clear from the start that he did not wish his face to be seen. “Not as neatly as I’d hoped. But plenty of people saw the guardian demon before it was slain-that was to my liking. It will further humiliate Tarness.”

  “If you like, I can ride tonight for Helstrow. There I can inform the king that the Burgrave of Ness has been harboring demons,” Bikker mused. He didn’t relish the prospect-he was not well-loved in the royal fortress just now. But it would further their aims, and it would get him far from Ness before things went to perdition.

  “Not just now. We’ll hold that charge back as insurance. No, Ladymas is almost upon us. When Tarness appears in public without the crown, he’ll be unable to explain himself. If we’re lucky, the people will riot on their own, without further provocation. By manipulating their anger, we can inspire them to true revolt. The city will collapse under civil strife, and the king will have no choice but to intervene.”

  Bikker frowned. He stared up at the cornucopia as he asked, “That’s the part I haven’t fully grasped. The Burgrave will look a fool if he appears without his crown, true enough. But he’s a man of formidable intellectual resources. Surely he’ll find some excuse and the people will believe it. They love him, after all.”

  “They love him. They will not love what they see on Ladymas.” The voice seemed to find this highly amusing. “Trust me, Bikker. I’ve had years to plot this out. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “I’m sure,” Bikker said. He wondered if he should tell his employer about Croy. But no. If the cabal thought Croy was a threat, they would take steps to slay the knight errant as a concerted front. Bikker didn’t want that. He wanted Croy all to himself. So he held his tongue.

  “Now. You know what you must do next? What your role is now?”

  “Aye, I’ll secure the crown. Get it to Hazoth’s villa where it can be hidden.”

  “Exactly. Get the crown from the thief-pay him whatever he asks, it doesn’t matter.”

  Bikker smiled. “Sure, since as soon as the crown is in my hands I can just kill the little fool and take the money back.”

  “What? No, you mustn’t kill the thief. You’re already a wanted criminal after tonight’s endeavors. It’s still against the law in this city to kill a man, and I don’t want Anselm Vry’s watchmen to pick you up for such a minor infraction. Not while I still need you. No, just pay the thief and let him be.”

  Bikker grunted in frustration. “This doesn’t sit well with me. The thief knows too much, and he’s hardly to be trusted. Leaving him alive is foolhardy.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of it. Which is why Hazoth is going to kill him. No need to get your hands dirty when we have one of the world’s greatest sorcerers on our side.”

  “As you wish,” Bikker said. Though it still rankled him. Not because he thought Hazoth wouldn’t do it. Because he had intended to give Malden-whom he had actually come to respect, after a fashion-a clean death. He could only imagine the particulars, but he was sure that what Hazoth did to the thief would be downright gruesome in comparison.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Croy and Cythera spent much of the night in furtive silence, as they wended their way from Castle Hill all the way down to Parkwall. The city watch was out in force and looking for them, and they had to take great pains to avoid capture.

  Twice they came close to discovery. They had docked their little boat in the Smoke, in a place where two tanneries discharged the contents of their vats directly into the Skrait. Cythera thought the smell would keep the watch away and they could debark unseen. They nearly walked right into an armed guard who stood watching a pile of untanned hides that had just been delivered. The guard challenged them as they came up the riverside stairs, and they had to run as he chased them with a club. Croy could have made short work of the man, of course, but that would have just drawn more attention.

  The second brush with the watch was more serious. They had arrived nearly at the edge of Ladypark Common, within sight of Hazoth’s villa and the house where Croy was staying-only to find the grassy sward crawling with watchmen. The two of them retreated to a tavern a few streets away, where they were able to find out why the common was so heavily guarded. It transpired that a footpad had murdered the footman of a money-changer there earlier in the evening. It had been a particularly bloody killing, and the watch was called down in droves to find evidence and look for the assassin.

  “They won’t find him,” Cythera said, when she and Croy could speak privately again. “That was Bikker’s work.”

  “Are you sure?” Croy asked, looking as if he would grab his swords and run out into the night to find the big swordsman.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t prove anything. But he was supposed to set a number of diversions, all the better to keep the watch away from Castle Hill. I didn’t think he’d be so… expedient about it.”

  Croy settled down then. In his personal book of accounts, Bikker already had enough crimes under his name. One more didn’t change how he felt.

  They took a room at the tavern under assumed names and spent the night waiting for a knock on their door or the sound of hobnailed boots rushing down the hall. No one came to arrest them, though, or even to ask them difficult questions. When morning finally came it seemed they were safe. The patrols of the watch had diminished in size and frequency, and both of them began to breathe easier.

  “I have to go back soon,” Cythera said as she led Croy through the Ladypark Market, a winding street of shops and stalls just uphill from Hazoth’s villa. Fishmongers wheeled their carts from door to door-this early, the day’s catch had not yet begun to stink-as linkboys hurried home to bed, to wait out the day until their services were again required. Minutes before, the two of them had had the place virtually to themselves, but now the city’s throngs closed around them. Bakers and brewers were already at their stations, of course, long before the dawn. With the sun, the market truly came to life, however, filling with women getting their daily shopping done.

  Croy found himself strangely unwilling to give up the heightened emotion of their night outrunning the watch. As fraught as it had been with apprehension, he’d savored the time with his lady fair. He supposed, though, that every night, no matter its freight of sweetness or of terror, must end. The morning had broken crisp and clear while they were renewing their old acquaintance-he had longed for the sun to tarry beneath the horizon, but alas, every day must follow in its course.

  “If I’m late,” Cythera said, “Hazoth will want to know why. And he has a method of discerning falsehoods.”

  “One that works, even on you?” Croy asked. “I thought you were immune to sorcery. Is his too strong for your curse to bear?”

  She smiled without mirth. “There is no sorcerer in this world who could break through my curse. But Hazoth, well… not every trick he pulls is by magic,” she told him. “He’s the cleverest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Cleverer than me?” Croy asked with a hurt look.

  “By far,” she said, and this time laughter creased the skin around her eyes. He was glad only that he could still bring her some small joy. There had been a time-a lifetime ago, it seemed-when he would cut capers and dance for her until she clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from guffawing like a fool. Now her aspect had changed for the morose.

  “I didn’t want to leave, back then,” he said with sudden seriousness. “The Burgrave was my liege lord. When he ordered me away, I had no choice.”

  She did not reply. Instead she ducked inside a bakery and emerged again a moment later with a round loaf. When she cracked it open, steam burst from the spongy brown bread inside.

  “When was the last time you ate?” she asked. “You were always so busy dashing hither and yon, you would forget to feed yourself. Don’t pretend to me, now. I’ve learned some of my master’s
art and will see it in your eye.”

  “I suppose it’s been no more than a day,” he said, thinking of the almonds he’d eaten while he watched her go inside Hazoth’s house the day before. He had to admit the bread was making his mouth water. “Not here, though. Let’s break our fast properly.”

  They found an inn that had just opened its doors, and for a piece of silver they were given a private room. The hostler looked askance at the shifting tattoos on Cythera’s face but said nothing, nor was he slow in bringing wine and a half wheel of cheese when they called for them.

  “Sit. There,” she said, and pointed at a bench by the room’s sole table. Croy did as he was told. “Will you take a cup?” she asked, lifting the flagon.

  “You don’t need to serve me,” Croy said, and took it from her hands. His fingers touched hers-only the lightest, gentlest of meetings, but enough to make her wince and nearly drop the wine. Croy made as if he hadn’t seen her fearful gesture. “You’re not my slave. Nor my wife. Yet.”

  “Oh, Croy, dreams are fine things, aren’t they?” she said.

  “Call it no dream. Say vision. Or prophecy.” He cut the bread and the cheese with his belt knife and handed her a slice of the former. She took it very carefully. He studied her face while she ate. The painted vines that curled around her cheekbones sprouted new leaves-and new thorns-while he watched. Around her throat they were as thick as a tangle of briars, with shadows deep and black between them. Once, he saw a pair of bestial eyes glowing in that darkness, but they winked out before he could meet their gaze.

  He knew perfectly well what those images meant. Cythera’s mother-a woman of fierce demeanor and considerable power-had placed this enchantment on her, that Cythera would never be harmed by curse or spell. Such magic could never penetrate further than the top layer of her skin. Yet that arcane energy must go somewhere, and thus manifested itself as these fell images. The curses lingered on her skin until such time that any man tried to attack her physically-and then they would be released, like a shock jumping from an iron door latch to one’s finger in the winter, only with far more lethal results.

  It was rare that a woman of Cythera’s character was the object of a truly vile curse, though. When Croy had met her-back when he was still employed as the Burgrave’s bodyguard-there was only a single tendril of curling vine then, and that disappeared up her sleeve. She might have gone a lifetime without acquiring much more in the way of images, had she not needed money. Penniless, with no skills to earn her keep, nor the willingness to prostitute herself, she had found employment where she could.

  Hazoth had taken her into his service when she was still a girl. He made an amulet out of a lock of her hair, which extended the protection of her enchantment to himself. And a sorcerer like Hazoth attracted his fair share of curses-cast by his enemies, of which he had many. He compelled service from the demons of the pit. Such creatures liked not making such bargains, and once they were free of his influence, sent magic to destroy him, or to pull him down into the pit with them where they could torment him forever. Now Cythera bore the brunt of those curses. Since entering Hazoth’s service, her collection of tattoos had grown denser with each day.

  Cythera’s skin crawled with magic, far too much for her to safely contain. Magic never stood still-it was pure action, pure energy, and it hated being bound or constrained. Her skin could hold an enormous magical potential but it had its limit, and once that maximum had been reached, the magic constantly sought to be discharged. The slightest jar, the most well-meaning touch, could release that magic instantly. If Croy grasped her hand in a fit of passion, if he crushed her lips with his own-it would be his end.

  He had to admit it was going to make the wedding night complicated. But perhaps they could find a way to release her from her magical burden.

  “Come away with me,” he said. “Tonight. Get away from the villa and meet me. We’ll be on a ship, sailing for some pleasant southern beach before he even knows you’ve left him.”

  “You think it’s that simple?”

  “I think it can be, if we choose it.”

  She lowered her crust of bread to the table and looked at it very carefully, as if she could read the future there. Perhaps she could. “He would not allow it. I must be near him for our connection to work. He would grow wroth.”

  “Let him pout! What harm can he do us? He wouldn’t dare hurt you.”

  “It’s not myself I’m worried about,” she told him. She looked up into his eyes. Her own were untouched by magic images. They were clear and very honest, and brooked no falsehoods. “He has my mother under his thumb. Should he desire it, he could extinguish her life with a wave of one hand.” She reached toward his cheek but did not touch him, only mimed the gesture, her palm hovering a fraction of an inch above his skin. She’d had a long time to learn how not to touch other people. A very long time to live with no one touching her. “Oh, Croy. You should never have come back.”

  He stood up quickly from the table, scattering the crumbs of cheese he’d been toying with. “You said you needed to report in. That it would mean trouble if you were late.”

  “So I did,” she told him. She rose from the table and wrapped her cloak tightly around herself, furling it over her arms so her hands were safely inside the garment. “You can’t escort me any further, of course, or he’ll see us together.” She headed for the door, but turned before she slipped through it to take one last look at him. “Try to forget me. I’m lost, Croy.”

  “You’re enslaved. Which is exactly what your mother was trying to protect against when she enchanted you. Hazoth is precisely the kind of enemy she wanted to forestall. Yet now he uses her against you. You’ve been captured by him as easily as if he had used sorcery to compel you.” The words were harsher than he’d meant them to be. He had no right to speak to her like that, he thought, and shame burned in his cheeks.

  “It’s like I said,” she told him. “Not every trick he pulls is by magic.” And then she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It took Malden the better part of the day to scrub the shit out of his clothes. He couldn’t afford to hire a washerwoman, and he certainly didn’t want to answer any questions she might have had, so he did it himself down by the river Skrait, rubbing his cloak against smooth rocks until its color was almost back to normal and it didn’t stink. When the time came, he told himself-when he was in Cutbill’s firm employ, and able to earn for himself-he would never have to wash his own clothes again.

  Perhaps it would happen tonight.

  He had been very worried after leaving Castle Hill that he might be arrested at any moment. The torturer got a good look at his face, after all, and could have reported his description to the watch. So he had spent the predawn hours slinking from one darkened part of the city to the next, spying on every cloak-of-eyes he could find, watching them to see if they were alerted and searching for a thief. And they had been-a woman, in a velvet cloak, in a little boat. Cythera. They were looking for Cythera.

  Which perhaps explained why she had not been waiting for him when he left the pipe and unceremoniously fell into the filthy river. He supposed he could not blame her for fleeing once the guards spotted her. In the midst of the confusion in the palace above, they would be unlikely to listen to whatever story she spun for them. She could have ended up in the strap herself.

  He would just have to make contact with her or with Bikker somehow, and make proper arrangements for handing over the crown. Which might be difficult if they were being sought by the watch-most likely they would have gone to ground. Still, he possessed ways to find them the authorities lacked. It would just take a little digging.

  On his way back from the river he decided, though, that he could afford to rest and lie low for a day. He was exhausted from his nocturnal jaunt, and his hands ached and desperately needed to be idle for a while. He was also starving, as he hadn’t eaten since the day before.

  So he took his time heading home. Down in his part
of the Stink, the river ran flat and wide through a district of fishermen’s homes, all built on stilts to weather the annual springtime flood. He climbed up a bank thick with salt grass, where coracles and punts lay overturned, the tar between their timbers softening in the sun. The fishermen sat in their boats, to keep them from being stolen, waiting for the tide to turn. In the meantime they laughed and joked amongst themselves as they repaired their nets with thick, scarred fingers. They eyed him warily but without comment. Surely it wasn’t the first time they’d seen a furtive figure, his clothes drenched with river water, come up the bank and slinking away in the early morning light. He hoped it happened often enough they wouldn’t remember him when he was gone.

  A short flight of stairs brought Malden up to the high street, where he bought a day-old loaf and three gulps of wine ladled out of a barrel. It was better fare than he often ate, but he was hungry enough to spend the extra coin. He picked apart the bread as he wended his way up the street, careful not to step in anything that might ruin his newly clean shoes. The houses here leaned over the roadway, their upper stories built out so far they were nearly touching. Even in the midday the shadows were thick under the eaves. He sat for a while on a horse trough to finish the meal, and watched the comings and goings of his neighbors.

  The people of the Stink dressed plainly, and few among them had clean faces-in fact, most bore the pockmarks of long-healed disease, or other signs of bad diet and unsanitary living. None of them could read or write, and by the age of twenty-five even the most comely of girls looked old and stooped.