Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

  “It must…” Malden rethought his words. He had been about to say that it must be difficult, being hated and feared by the people you guarded. He didn’t know, however, if the ogre was aware that children told stories of the monster in the pipe and dared each other to see how close they could get before running away. If the ogre didn’t know about his own legend already, it would be cruel to enlighten him. “It must be very lonely down here,” he said instead.

  The ogre shrugged. “I hath the birds to singeth me lullabies, and the trees to whisper their orisons o’er me at night.”

  Ah, Malden thought. So he has gone mad with the solitude.

  “Tell me,” Croy said to the thief, “would Gurrh be a useful addition to your crew?”

  Malden thought it over. Ogres were notoriously difficult to slay, at least according to the stories. They could shrug off the blows of iron weapons, and only steel had proven capable of piercing their thick hides back in the old days-back when steel was rare as gold was now, before the dwarves started selling it to anyone with enough coin. And Malden had to admit that even Bikker would flinch when facing a rampaging ogre coming toward him with claws a-snatching and teeth a-gnashing.

  He looked at Croy and nodded shrewdly.

  “Gurrh,” Croy said, “the Burgrave has need of you once again.”

  “Hath he? Certes, an’ that pleaseth me, Croy. I serve at his pleasure,” Gurrh said, and made a deep bow.

  Malden frowned. “You don’t want to hear what we’re paying?” he asked.

  “Thou speak of gold? When milord hath need of me? My arm’s his, for the asking, and always shall be. Service hath its own reward.”

  Definitely crazy, Malden thought. But perhaps-usefully so.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  A new and much improved plan had begun to come together in Malden’s mind. He ran through it time and again, arguing over the finer points with Kemper and looking always for the places where it could go dreadfully wrong. There were far too many of those for his liking, of course. He still did not know who had originally paid to have the crown stolen-Bikker’s employer remained mysterious. The plan depended far too much on Hazoth being preoccupied and taking no interest in what happened within his house. And at any time various players-Anselm Vry, the Burgrave, even Cutbill-could decide to move in and put an end to things in whatever way they chose.

  Still-if everything went exactly right, and he made no mistakes

  … maybe it could be done.

  At all hours he had either Croy or Kemper watching Hazoth’s villa, looking for any sign that things had changed inside. From time to time they reported something interesting. Cythera was seen going out to market and carrying on with her usual business, which meant she had not betrayed him to Hazoth (willingly or no). Bikker showed up one afternoon with a haversack over his shoulder and took up residence in the guard barracks. Hazoth never left the house-more’s the pity-but at night, ofttimes, strange lights could be seen illuminating the rose window at the front of the villa.

  “Like unholy fires blaze in there,” Croy said. “They dance and tremble and then are extinguished. None of the guards pay any mind.”

  Malden knew not what to make of that. Hazoth could be summoning demons until his halls were stuffed with them, for all he knew. Or he could simply be engaged in some esoteric study Malden could never comprehend. He tried not to think of it overmuch, and focused on those things he could control.

  The special gear he had tasked Slag with constructing would not be ready until the very day before Ladymas. The job would have to take place that night, which was cutting things very fine. Again, there was nothing he could do about that.

  It left him with far too much time to think, however. He spent as many hours as he could going over the plan again and again, rehearsing bits of it with Kemper or taking his own turns watching the villa. But eventually he needed a rest, just a pause to refresh his mind. He headed for one of the few places in the city where he still felt at home: the Lemon Garden, up in the Royal Ditch.

  Elody took him in without a word. Perhaps she could see in his eyes how haunted he was by what he was about to do. She led him to her own private rooms and gave him wine to drink and a plate of fresh fruit. “Your generosity is welcome, but I know you can’t afford this,” he pointed out as he stabbed an apple with his bodkin and brought it to his mouth. “I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

  “Oh, Malden, just having you around is payment enough. You get the girls all excited when you turn up. That makes them frisky and they earn more, so in the end I have a net gain.” Elody laughed. “You can have any of them you like, on the house. You just have to ask.”

  Malden shook his head. “The woman I want isn’t here,” he said, even though he knew what that would elicit. Elody’s face lit up and her eyes glowed as she descended on him, demanding gossip, wanting to know all about this new sweetheart.

  “She’s not mine,” Malden said, a bit glumly. He had come here to cheer himself up but suddenly he was in a foul mood. “Most like she never will be. She was betrothed to a knight, of all things.”

  “Was?” Elody asked. “But she isn’t now?”

  “I don’t think so-it’s all so confusing. I think she might have been trying to tell me something the last time I saw her, but… I just don’t know. How can I compete with a man like that? He has a castle, Elody. A castle.”

  “Not every woman is so mercenary with her favors as the ladies who raised you,” Elody replied. “Some, I hear, would rather have love than money.” She looked almost wistful when she said it. “You need to give her what he can’t. Is he handsome? Does he have strong arms and golden hair and a noble bearing?”

  “Yes, all of those,” Malden agreed. “He is a bit dim,” he added, though, because he couldn’t help himself.

  “Then try being clever. It shouldn’t be so hard for the likes of you,” Elody told him.

  “When I’m around her I feel an utter fool. I feel as if I’ll never be clever again,” Malden confessed.

  “Then it must be true love,” Elody said, and they laughed together.

  She kept him there late that night and plied him with wine. He told her everything-of Cythera’s cursed skin, of Croy’s pledges and vows. She gave him what advice she could, then sent him home very drunk and a little less fearful. He fell into bed thinking he almost had a chance.

  In the morning the early light convinced him otherwise. It was the day before Ladymas. His head was pounding, and he had work to do.

  When Slag’s things were ready, he went immediately to Cutbill’s lair and took possession of them. He tied them up in a bundle and went straight back to his room above the waxchandler’s. It was almost noon by the time he arrived. Coming up the stairs he heard voices inside where only Kemper should be, and he opened the door warily, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

  When he saw Cythera inside, sitting at his table, his breath caught in his throat. He nearly did run away.

  “Kemper, go relieve Croy at his watch,” Malden said when he’d divested himself of his gear.

  “Lad, it’s dull as ditchwater down there. Nothing’s like t’happen afore ye get in place.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have any trouble,” Malden told him.

  Kemper muttered something under his breath. “At least gimme cards back. I miss me little friends.”

  “Your cards.” Malden still had them in his tunic, where they’d laid against his skin for days. “You can have them back when we’ve got the crown.” Their eyes met for one last time, and Malden saw that Kemper was ready. It was important that Cythera didn’t know the real reason why Malden had been holding onto the cards. “I don’t want to hear you cut off your watch early to find a quick game,” he said.

  “I ain’t stupid, lad,” Kemper replied, his chin nodding almost imperceptibly. “I know ye’d have me hide if I did.”

  Malden nodded and watched his companion leave. When he was alone with Cythera, he closed the shutter of the win
dow, even though it was a hot day.

  “Bikker has the guards complaining,” she told him. “He’s put them through harsh discipline and punished them severely for any slight change of routine.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t know what’s coming, though. Neither does Hazoth. How are things on your end?”

  “Everything’s ready and in place,” he told her. “As much as it can be. I have completely changed my plans, thanks to your information. We start by sending in our pet ogre to-”

  She shook her head. “Don’t tell me. If Hazoth questions me, he can make me give up your secrets. Unless I don’t have them.”

  “Very well,” Malden said, appreciating her wisdom. “Then let me say only: your mother may be free by morning.”

  Her eyes flashed with hope. She crossed the room to him, her velvet cloak swishing around her feet. “Malden-thank you,” she said. “I know you have your own reasons for doing this. But thank you.”

  He started to bow but then thought better of it. Instead he held out his hand.

  She smiled and held her own just above his palm, a fraction of an inch from touching him. Painted clematis and brier rose twisted around her knuckles. “No-don’t,” she warned when he leaned over her hand to kiss her fingers. “Please, Malden, for your own sake-”

  His lips touched her skin with the gentlest of pressures. Had he only breathed upon her hand she would have felt it more.

  “Oh, what are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Kissing me! Malden, once I tried to kill you with a kiss.”

  “I’ve faced less sweet dooms since,” he told her. “I’d rather die on your lips than on the point of Bikker’s sword.”

  “You… you speak words of love to me.”

  Malden shrugged. “Are you surprised? I’ve felt something for you, Cythera, since the first time I met you. Tell me that was just a spell. Some charm your mother cast on you, to make you irresistible to men.”

  “No,” Cythera said.

  “Then what I feel is real,” he said.

  For a moment they only watched each other, like duelists preparing to begin. He knew she felt something as well. She must! Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it was dangerous. But he’d been leading up to this for a very long time.

  She took a step back. “One rough kiss would be all it takes to release the magic in my painted skin. It would destroy you.”

  “I’m not afraid of the curses you’ve stored up,” he said. “A rough kiss would set them off, you say. Yet a gentle kiss is harmless, as we’ve seen.”

  She laughed, delighted. “You are quite nimble, aren’t you?”

  “I could show you just how deft I am,” he told her. “If you have an hour before you must return.”

  “Malden, you dare much.”

  “Do I offend? Then slap me across the cheek,” he told her, daring more.

  He touched her wrist with one finger and traced a tattooed creeper that ran up toward her elbow. He kept his fingertip barely in contact with her skin, but enough so. He had lived among whores long enough to gain some basic knowledge of the erotic arts. For instance, he knew that a feather-soft touch on sensitive skin could be more maddening and arousing than a rough caress.

  “Croy-” Cythera said, but then closed her mouth as a shudder ran through her body. “Croy-”

  “Is not here,” he told her. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “How long has it been, Cythera, since you were touched like this?”

  “Too long,” she said.

  “But you remember how it feels, don’t you?” It was a careful way of asking an important question.

  “Yes,” she said. “Before I met Croy, there were… others. They were brutes, for the most part. Too quick to take what they wanted, or they were cruel and wanted what I did not wish to part with.”

  “But what do you want?” Malden asked her. He reached up and unpinned her hair, letting it fall down across her cheeks.

  She sighed. “I don’t think any man has ever asked me that question.”

  “Would you like to sit down? My bed is just over here.”

  She laughed again, as if she didn’t know how to react. “If Croy knew what you were doing, his heart would crack like a badly forged bell.”

  “Is there any reason why you would tell him?” Malden asked. “I’m no brute, Cythera. Nor am I cruel. You can stop this with a word. But if you remain silent… well. The choice is yours.”

  Chapter Seventy

  When Croy came in, an hour later, Malden and Cythera were sitting on opposite sides of the room, trying to work out between them who Bikker’s mysterious employer might be. There were plenty of likely suspects.

  “The king wants the charter revoked,” Cythera pointed out. “So he can tax Ness. He must lose thousands of royals every year because of a promise his distant ancestor made to the distant ancestor of our Burgrave.”

  “He has the motive, I’ll grant it,” Malden said, “but my money’s on Bikker himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think Bikker invented this phantom employer. I think he knew Hazoth would never take him seriously, or maybe he wanted a scapegoat if everything went wrong. When the city riots, I think he’ll present himself as its new ruler. A man with an Ancient Blade could rally the people to his standard-and end the violence. He’d be a hero, and a sure bet to be named as Tarness’s successor.”

  “Is a magic sword all it takes to lead men? Why, then, Croy might be our hidden enemy,” Cythera pointed out. She and Malden both stared at Croy as if they’d discovered a dire secret.

  Croy stared back as if they’d both gone mad. When they laughed at their little joke, he turned bright red and went to Malden’s washstand. “Does it even matter?” Croy asked. He poured water over his hands in the basin and scrubbed at his face. “It’s too late to make use of such information. It’s almost time to begin. The plan can’t be changed now.”

  “I must go,” Cythera said. “You know I cannot aid you once things are in motion,” she said, glancing at Malden.

  He nodded. “You must act as surprised as anyone. But you’ll know it has begun when the ogre appears on your doorstep.”

  “An ogre,” she said. “You mentioned it before. Where in the world did you find one of those?”

  “It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright-twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”

  “Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”

  “Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”

  “Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”

  Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”

  “It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being-even in self-defense-the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”

  “Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden sl
owly turned to face Croy.

  “You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.

  Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.

  Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.

  “The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”

  “Are you calling me faithless?”

  Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker-the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”

  “Never,” Croy said.

  “Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”

  He watched the muscles in Croy’s neck tighten. “I am not a liar, by inclination or by practice,” the knight said. “But I was left with no choice.”

  “Speak plainly!”

  Croy sighed. “Don’t you understand? If I’m to recover Cythera’s trust, I must earn it. I must be the one who frees her and her mother.”

  “I’ve been generous enough to let you play a part, but that’s all,” Malden pointed out.

  “The role you’ve set for me in your scheme is meaningless. I am to stand as a lookout, and nothing more. How can that show Cythera the depth of my devotion to her? It should be me fighting for her freedom. It should be my arm, my sword, that strikes the telling blow. And no other man has a right to fell Bikker. That is my duty, and I will perform it.”

  “You’re wounded,” Malden said. He did not allow the point of his bodkin to shift even a fraction of an inch. “Even at the fullness of your strength, you’re no match for Bikker. He would have bested you up at the palace if the demon there hadn’t diverted his attention. He would have killed you then. Are you so hot to die at his hand now?”