Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

  He began to make the necessary passes in the air with his hands-but then stopped without warning.

  It seemed he had one more thing to say.

  “I know you hate me, girl,” he muttered. “I know you’re plotting against me. I know you think Sir Croy is going to come here and save you and your mother. But it’s hopeless, Cythera. No one can help you now. You’re mine, and always will be.”

  “I–I-”

  “I think you need to be reminded of this simple fact.”

  In the end, there was never any way to avoid the punishments.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  There were many eyes watching Hazoth’s villa the next day, when Anselm Vry sent his watchmen in to take the crown back. It was an overcast morning, with a light drizzle falling from time to time. For Malden and Kemper, who watched from the north end of the common, it was a miserable way to spend their hours. They had intended to spend the day studying what could be seen of the villa from afar. When the watchmen arrived, however, they hid themselves in the bushes hard by Ladypark and kept out of sight as best they could.

  Kemper shuffled endlessly through his precious cards, reestablishing the bond he had with them that let him hold them when another deck would fall through his hands. Malden had nothing to do but sit and hold the collar of his cloak tight against his neck, trying to keep the chill rain from running down his back. Yet he would not have moved from the spot. Though he could not know for certain, he believed he knew exactly what the watchmen had come for. Somehow, it seemed, Vry had learned where the crown was-and that could be a very bad thing. If Vry found the crown now, if Hazoth allowed it to be taken, it would be the end of all his-and Cutbill’s-schemes. It would mean death for both of them.

  Meanwhile, Croy watched from the house of his wealthy friend, in comfort, with a flagon of wine and a loaf of bread for breakfast. This could be the day he finally freed Cythera from her bonds, he thought. If Vry was successful and found the crown, it would be the end of Hazoth. Cythera and her mother would be freed of Hazoth’s enslavement and they could go anywhere they liked. Croy could take Cythera away from him, he could marry her and bring her to his castle. Everything could turn out right.

  As for Cythera herself, she watched from inside the villa and perhaps had the best view. Certainly she had the most to gain from this. Hazoth’s punishment of the night before had been cruel, and she ached for the sorcerer’s comeuppance. She very dearly wished she could just watch and see it play out. However, she was forced to pay attention to her regular duties-seeing to the needs of the villa, arranging for foodstuffs to be delivered, sheets to be changed and washed, silver coins handed out to all Hazoth’s retainers and servants, so she was often away from the windows. She did not know what to think, or what this raid could mean. She dared not hope for too much.

  None of them would leave-or breathe easily-until it was done.

  It seemed to take forever for the watchmen to gather at the southern end of the Ladypark. First came their serjeant, a big fellow in a cloak-of-eyes with a red hem. He brought two porters who set up a tent where he could sit in relatively dry comfort. Next his men arrived, four of them, carrying halberds and watching the sky with doubtful looks. There was a great deal of discussion between the four and their officer, none of it particularly heated.

  Only four, Croy mused. Four against a sorcerer. What was Vry thinking?

  When the time for discussion was done, the men each took a cup of ale. They leaned on the hafts of their weapons and drank their ration in silence. When the cups were empty, they left the tent and walked across the common. Their boots kicked up crystalline spray from the swampy grass as they marched toward the villa. The serjeant remained in his tent, where it was dry.

  “Now ye’ll see somewhat, lad,” Kemper said with a wicked grin. “This oughta be a bloodbath, and no foolin’.”

  “You think Hazoth won’t even let them in,” Malden said.

  “More fool if’n he does, eh?” Kemper laughed. “Ooh, it’s gonna be good. After what they did t’me, strappin’ me up in that donjon. I can still feel the silver bitin’ into me wrists an’ ankles. Let’s see how them cloaks-of-eyes like it, bein’ hoisted in the air. Ooh, it’s lovely.”

  Malden could not share the card sharp’s vindictive glee. He wasn’t sure how this would play out, but he knew if Hazoth killed the watchmen, or even if he just refused them entry to his house, it would only mean more trouble. Vry couldn’t leave it at that-he would have to send more watchmen, and more after that, until every armed man in the city was standing outside Hazoth’s gate demanding to be let in. That could hardly end well for anyone involved, and it would make it impossible for him to get in and steal the crown back. He didn’t know what he should hope for now. He could only watch, and pray for the best.

  The four watchmen reached the gate of the villa just before noontime-though only Cythera was aware of the correct time. Hazoth had a mechanical clock on the second floor landing of the villa. Its persistent ticking had always soothed her before, the way it cut the day up into tiny portions, making her hours of bondage easier to digest. Now each tick and each tock were blows against her senses, as all her hopes depended on this next hour.

  The watchmen stopped just outside the gate. One of them hallooed the guards and demanded entry in the name of the Burgrave. Cythera alone could hear the response-and alone was astonished by it.

  “Well met, fellows. The Magus bids you enter and be welcome,” the guard said. He turned and made a signal toward the rose window at the top of the house, and the magical barrier came down, the wet air itself seeming to sigh in relief.

  The watchmen filed through the portico and into the great hall. Up on the gallery, Cythera was busy counting the silver-an important job in a sorcerer’s house, since any spoon Hazoth ate with could be used against him by a rival wizard. She bent over the cutlery in case anyone (human or invisible) was watching, but listened close to what was said below her.

  “I have an official message from the bailiff, which I must present to you, milord,” one of the watchmen said. “Then we must ask to search your house.”

  Hazoth did not sound particularly worried. “Very good, let me hear it.”

  “It is as follows,” the watchman said. He had not been carrying a scroll-most likely he’d memorized the message so he could recite it now.

  “Greetings to our good friend Hazoth, much beloved of the Burgrave and of the king his liege. It is with heavy heart that I, Anselm Vry, must send you this deputation today. Certain evidence has been advanced concerning the theft of an item the Burgrave considers the most valuable of all his possessions. This evidence tends to suggest that the item in question may currently be found within the bounds of your property. Under common law I am empowering these men to search the house, outbuildings, and lands of your villa, with all care being taken to minimize the disturbance, and especially any damage, to said property. Your cooperation in this search, my dear Hazoth, will be most gratefully received. Should said item be found upon your land or property, or on your person, or in any way concealed or possessed by your esteemed self, this deputation shall have the power to remove it to safety, and at that time, but not before, criminal charges may be brought against you or any agent in your employ found to have any part in the theft, movement, or concealment of said item. Signed, your servant, Anselm Vry, Bailiff of the Free City of Ness.”

  The watchman cleared his throat. Apparently he had finished his message.

  “I don’t see nothin’,” Kemper said, sounding annoyed as he peered out through the rain at the distant villa. “No flashes o’ light, no hellish smoke boilin’ from the windows. No fiery hands clutchin’ at the watchmen or demons comin’ up through cracks in the soil. You think maybe he just magicked ’em straight into the pit?”

  Cythera stepped over to the railing of the gallery and looked down on the scene-watchers be damned.

  Croy held his breath.

  “Very well,” Hazoth said. He lifted on
e hand and gestured toward the stairs. “Would you like to begin your search in my chambers, or down here in the public areas of the house? And may I offer you something to drink or eat?”

  The watchmen looked embarrassed. “We’re under orders, Magus, not to take aught from you, not even a cup of small beer, as it might be cursed. Not, uh, not that we would think you would do such a thing.”

  “Perish the thought,” Hazoth said.

  “If you’ll just stand aside we’ll get to things, and leave you in peace as quick as we can.”

  “Certainly,” Hazoth said, and stepped away from the stairs.

  The search took much of the afternoon. Cythera was required to assist the watchmen-she held the keys to all the locked rooms, and could open some of the magically sealed doors and cupboards for them. The watchmen seemed surprised by some of the house’s more unusual furniture, but never said a word, even when a book in the library jumped off the shelf and fluttered like a fish out of water at their feet. It tried to follow the watchmen as they backed out of the library, as if begging them to take it with them and free it from Hazoth’s villa. Cythera knew what the book contained and didn’t blame it. Still, she bent to retrieve it, and running one calming thumb along its spine, slotted it back in its place on the shelf.

  What’s taking so long? Malden wondered as he toyed with the bodkin at his belt.

  They’re being thorough, at least, Croy told himself as he clutched his hands together and leaned forward in his chair.

  The last part of the house to be searched was the third floor. The chains in the master bedroom drew the watchmen’s attention, and they made a brave try at searching the laboratory, despite the noxious fumes. Other rooms barely drew their notice. By daylight most of the truly dangerous parts of the third floor were subdued and harmless, for which Cythera was glad-she would not have liked to explain some of the things the watchmen would have seen had they come after dark.

  When they reached the sealed and locked hallway that led to Hazoth’s inner sanctum, they didn’t even glance at the door, just kept walking past.

  “Here, I can open this for you, though you must be careful inside,” Cythera told them. “I believe he disarmed all the traps, but still it would be well if you-”

  “Milady?” a watchman said. “There’s no door there.”

  Cythera frowned and pointed out the door again. “This one.”

  “Don’t see nothin’,” one of the others said. “Nothin’ there.”

  She studied their faces-especially their eyes-looking for any sign that their minds had been clouded by magic. Hazoth must have enchanted them not to see the door, she thought-and she did not dare to try to break that spell. As for the watchmen, they just stared back at her, blinking occasionally, as if they were bored and wished to return to their work.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  An hour or so later the watchmen trooped down the stairs to the great hall again, where they apologized to Hazoth for any inconvenience and then took their leave. Hazoth headed back upstairs to return to his studies, telling Cythera along the way that she should return to her normal duties.

  As the watchmen stepped back out onto the gravel forecourt of the villa — and Croy jumped up, his chair tumbling out behind him — and Kemper and Malden leaned forward to get a better view — and Cythera clutched a silver serving fork to her chest, bracing herself for she knew not what — absolutely nothing happened.

  The watchmen were allowed to exit the villa without any further delay. They marched back to the tent, where they reported at some length to their serjeant. Then the porters returned to take down the tent, and all departed together, heading up the Cripplegate Road toward the Stink, and thence back toward Castle Hill.

  And still nothing happened.

  Hazoth returned to his studies. He did not leave his laboratory for the rest of the day. Cythera went about her duties. Normally she would have been glad for Hazoth’s preoccupation. Any time to herself-any time when he wasn’t demanding things of her, or torturing her for his amusement-was precious. Now, though, she was more frightened than ever. Hazoth might or might not realize her part in summoning the watchmen, but it didn’t matter. When he finished with his day’s labors he would want someone to blame for the interruption, someone on whom to take out his anger. What was coming would be terrible, even worse than the punishment of the night before. There was nothing for it, though. All she could do was keep at her work. If her head was slightly bowed, if her hands lingered on the familiar knives and spoons in the silver cabinet as if she were lost in gloomy thoughts, it didn’t stop her from finishing the task.

  Up by the trees, thoroughly sodden with rain, Malden clucked his tongue in disgust and looked over at Kemper. The intangible card sharp was dry as a bone-the raindrops had passed through him without stop. “I need to get dry,” Malden announced. “Come, I have a spare cloak back at my rooms. We’ll make a fire. And then we need to confer.”

  “I don’t unnerstand it,” Kemper said, trailing after Malden as he hurried up the street leading out of Parkwall. “He just let ’em in? Let ’em ransack his spread?”

  “They didn’t find the crown,” Malden told his associate. “That much is certain. If they had they would have dragged Hazoth out of his hole and conveyed him forthwith to the palace dungeon. Or rather, they would have tried. He would not have gone easy.”

  “Now that, I would’ve paid t’witness,” Kemper chortled.

  Malden was thinking out loud. “Vry said he would search every house in the city for the crown. Yet I cannot believe that he would start here without some reason. I would think he would avoid Hazoth’s wrath if at all possible. So he must know. He must have some sign that the crown is in there-and yet, his watchmen left without it, and without a fuss.” He shook his head. “Perhaps he has another scheme in mind, and this was only a feint. Which only tightens our schedule. We must steal the crown back before he gets it-or all is lost.” He shivered inside his wet tunic. “We need to sit somewhere and think hard on this.”

  “Aye, lad, and sure.”

  “Perhaps a brandy or two wouldn’t hurt.”

  That seemed to cheer Kemper immensely.

  The two thieves were around a corner and gone before they could see the one real consequence of Anselm Vry’s raid. In the stables of a rich man’s house just across the way from Hazoth’s villa, voices were raised and a horse was starting.

  “Just be reasonable, friend, it’s your death out there!”

  Croy turned on his host with flashing eyes. For a second he thought he might strike down the merchant who stood in his way. Then he gripped the man’s forearms and leaned close to speak. “Forgive me. You’ve been so very kind, taking me in like this. I know I’ve put you in danger just by being here.”

  “Think nothing of it-but think of yourself now. If you go riding up there in this state of excitement they’ll arrest you on the spot.”

  “Anselm Vry will listen to logic. When I show him I am his only hope, he will give me what I need to finish this,” Croy said, and released the man. He grabbed up a saddle from a tack locker and threw it over the back of his host’s most hot-blooded stallion. As his host pleaded with him, he cinched the girth tight. He reached back and checked both his swords, making sure they were tied down in their scabbards and wouldn’t shake loose. Then he pulled a long felted cape over his back-the teased wool would keep out the rain, and protect his steel from rust. He grabbed the pommel and made to mount, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

  “They won’t just arrest you,” the merchant said, shaking his head. “They’ll cut you down like a dog. Once they see your blades, they will not show mercy.”

  “I will move their hearts with my plea.” Croy hoisted himself up over the horse’s back and dropped heavily into the saddle. He grabbed up the reins and jerked the stallion’s head around so it faced the road.

  “You say two different things. Is Vry a man of reason, or a man with a good heart? I’ve found them to be contraries n
ot often reconciled in a single nature.”

  Croy shrugged. “One way or another I’ll convince him. And if I don’t-then maybe I’ll die today. But I’ll perish in the name of justice.”

  “Then do me one favor, before you die.”

  Croy grimaced at the delay, but he nodded. He never failed to pay his debts.

  “When you reach the castle gates-dismount. Turn my horse around and give him a good whack on the hindquarters. He knows the way home. If I’m to lose a friend today, I can at least get my best palfrey back.”

  Croy laughed bitterly and dug in his spurs.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Despite the cool day, the palfrey was panting and its flanks were dripping foam by the time Croy thundered up the Cornmarket Bridge and through Market Square. At the main gate to Castle Hill, a guard waved his pikestaff in the air to demand that Croy halt, but the man was wise enough to stand back rather than be trampled as Croy shot through the gate at full gallop and passed into the bailey. Workmen threw down their tools and jumped out of his way as he leapt the pile of broken stone before the tower. He didn’t slow the horse until he was right before the main door of the palace, and then only long enough to jump down and send the horse wheeling away, headed back to its master as promised.

  For a moment all was stillness in the courtyard. No one dared move, for they did not know why he’d come or what he wanted. If he had sprouted horns and bat wings in that moment, he doubted the watchmen and the guard would be more surprised by his appearance there.

  He was thankful for their caution. It gave him a moment-the space of a few breaths-to make his demand.

  “Anselm Vry!” he shouted, throwing back the hood of his cloak. He reached back and untied his swords, just in case.

  He could hear the palace guards rushing into place behind him, their mail clanking and the butts of their weapons sounding on the flagstones. He did not turn to look at them. “Vry, come out, I would speak with you!”