Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

Cythera stood behind him, her eyes downcast. She looked as lovely as ever, even if Malden knew she’d betrayed him. She met his gaze and mouthed an apology, though she did not speak out loud. She looked so piteous, so sympathetic, that he wondered if he could summon up real anger at her betrayal.

  He found he could not.

  She had pinned her hopes to Croy’s star and been disappointed. She had hoped Malden could help her, and that appeared to have failed, too. Her life-and that of her mother-were bound in unholy union with Hazoth, and she could not free herself. She needed help so she had turned to anyone she could get, even a poor thief like him. He’d done his best, and she had helped him to the full extent of her ability. But they had both known it was a long shot. A suicide mission. No, he could not blame her now. Had she maintained her innocence, if she’d held her tongue, Hazoth would have taken out his rage on Coruth.

  Malden knew Cythera would never let that happen, if she had any choice at all.

  He glanced over at Coruth and the leaden box that held the crown. They were unchanged.

  “Quite safe,” Hazoth said. He walked over to the magic circle and bent to inspect the chalk lines on the floorboards. While he was thus busy, Malden looked over at Cythera, trying to think of what signal to send her.

  All he could do was shrug.

  Cythera turned her gaze on the tree that was her mother. A single tear rolled down her painted cheek. Malden’s heart went out to her. She must have dared to hope when she saw how close he had come to rescuing Coruth. The plan had gone so smoothly, and now… Well. Things had changed.

  He longed to speak to her. To reassure her, perhaps, though what words he would use to do so escaped him. Hazoth had not given him permission to speak anyway, so he kept silent. He tried to communicate with Cythera using just his eyes, but she would no longer look at him.

  “One thing,” Hazoth said, rising to his feet again, “escapes me. I would like to have an answer before I decide what to do with you, little rodent.”

  He came back over to Malden and stared down at him with unquiet eyes.

  “What you are doing here is quite clear. You came to steal back that which you were paid for,” Hazoth said. “Why you would do so is no mystery. I imagine you think that if you can recover the item you will be able to bargain for your life with those who seek it. A logical conclusion, though there is one fallacy in your reasoning. The players in this game outstrip you in power and in intellect. They would be glad to have the thing back, certainly. But they would not let you live once they had it. Don’t you see? You’ve learned too much. An animal in possession of a secret is a dangerous animal. They would slaughter you even more readily than I.”

  Malden bit his lip.

  “You may speak,” Hazoth told him. “In fact, I insist. Tell me who sent you, and what they want from the crown?”

  Malden frowned. “Surely you know the answer. The Burgrave wants what was stolen from him. He will be embarrassed if he appears tomorrow in the Ladymas procession without his crown.”

  Hazoth smiled. “The Burgrave? Do you mean Ommen Tarness? I really don’t think he was the one who employed you.” He laughed at the thought. “No, not Ommen.”

  “Why should he not?” Malden asked.

  “Because Ommen Tarness is an idiot,” Hazoth answered.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  “A fool, perhaps, but-”

  Hazoth’s face clouded with anger. “I did not say you could speak!” he thundered.

  Inside Malden’s chest his heart stopped beating. Pain lanced through his limbs and he dropped to the floor in a quivering heap. He could not draw breath, could not move, and every sound in the room was a distant echo — and then he recovered. He sat up carefully, unsure if he was still alive or had passed into the afterlife.

  Hazoth went on as if nothing had occurred. “I do not use that word as a casual insult. Ommen Tarness is mentally an infant. He has been since he was thirteen years old, when his father died and he became the Burgrave-his brains stopped growing, even as his body developed. He can barely feed himself. I understand that getting him dressed each morning is a tiresome chore-he doesn’t like to wear state clothing, and throws fits of tantrums when the castellan tries to put a robe over his shoulders.”

  Malden frowned in confusion. He’d seen Ommen Tarness in public many times, and the man had always struck him as highly intelligent and composed.

  “Ommen’s father, Holger Tarness, was the same. And Holger’s father, and his father’s father-the line of Tarness is corrupted in the blood. There hasn’t been one of them that could wipe his nose properly in centuries,” Hazoth said. “It really isn’t proper to call Ommen the Burgrave at all. He is like a horse that carries a rider, and that rider is the true Burgrave. Who is currently sealed into yon leaden box.”

  Malden turned to stare at the coffer tangled in the rowan tree’s roots.

  “Tell me, rodent. Are you bright enough to know who I speak of? You may answer me, if you think you’ve worked it out.”

  Malden considered the puzzle carefully. “I think perhaps I can work out your meaning. I have enough clues to piece together now. The crown spoke to me, when I held it. It possessed an air of command, as if it was accustomed to people accepting its orders without question.” He shook his head. He could still remember how it called to him-and how desperately hard it had been to ignore its commands. It wanted him to place it on his own head. He thought he understood now exactly how foolish that would have been.

  He considered his second point. “Further, I saw the chamber where it resided when not in use, and that room was full of campaign banners and the trophies of war. Mementos of a military man, placed where no one would normally see them. Yet clearly they were treasured by someone. There is only one man I can think of who fits the bill.”

  He nodded to himself. “Finally, I know that no other crown will serve Ommen Tarness. Bikker initially suggested that when the crown was stolen, the Burgrave could simply have a replica made and that he would not even come looking for the original, for fear of embarrassment should its theft be discovered. Since then, however, certain… others have told me that only this one will do. That it cannot be so simply replaced. But why not? No one ever heard the crown speak, except for me and presumably Ommen Tarness. A nonspeaking replica would be accepted by the people without question. So it must be that Ommen requires the crown to function as Burgrave.”

  He met Hazoth’s gaze directly. “Based on these elements, I believe I have a conclusion. Are you saying that Juring Tarness lives on, eight hundred years after his supposed death, imprisoned inside his own crown?”

  Hazoth’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Wonderful! You have it precisely. Juring Tarness, the first Burgrave, who founded the Free City of Ness. The general who handed his king a country, and asked for a cesspool as reward. Yes! But you have one subtle detail wrong. It is not Juring who is imprisoned by the crown-it is Ommen.”

  Malden thought he understood the distinction, but he said nothing rather than risk Hazoth’s displeasure with his rudeness.

  “Juring and I were fast friends, eight centuries ago. He came to me one night at the end of his life and begged me for my aid. He had a son at that time, an heir who would take up his crown and his title when he died. Sadly, the boy was a wastrel-all his energies were given over to petty entertainments, wine, and whoring. Anyone could see the son would never be a fit ruler. Juring loved his city and worried what would happen to it when his son took power. He had built a fiefdom for himself and ruled it ably. Perhaps his people thought him just and wise. Perhaps they only obeyed him because they knew what he was capable of when angered. His son could not command such respect. More importantly, the boy was incapable of holding onto money. He was a gambler and a drunkard, and Juring knew that if he was given free rein, he would bankrupt the city in a year. The king at that time feared Juring enough to stay out of his business, but once Juring was gone, the king would surely see the son’s weakness. One way or another
it would end with the city’s charter being revoked, and everything that Juring had worked for would be lost.”

  Hazoth’s eyes grew bright as he remembered the long-lost past. Malden was not so foolish as to think the wizard distracted enough to give him any chance of escape. “When he came to me, Juring was at the end of his tether. He could see no solution. If only there was a way for his wisdom to survive his death, some method by which he could continue to advise his son-and to command him, should it come to that

  … He thought perhaps I knew a way to help. I considered the problem from all angles, and eventually I found the answer.”

  Hazoth grinned. “Juring’s body was fragile, like all human flesh. It would perish and decay. His mind, however, could live on, through cunning applications of magics known only to me. It needed something to hold it, however-his mortal brains would rot away, so his consciousness had to be imbued into a vessel that time could not corrode… something of gold, which unlike other metals does not rust or tarnish or turn to verdigris. Gold has other qualities that make it ideal for such an enchantment as well-but you would not understand if I listed them. The object in question must also be something that his son would not like to part with. The crown was the obvious choice.

  “Juring wanted the crown to speak with his voice, even after his death, and I made it so. Every time the son placed the crown on his head, he heard his father’s voice whispering in his ear. He could no longer enjoy his carousing and his ruinous wagers. When he consorted with low company or dealt poorly with his subjects, he was plagued by terrible headaches and by a need to atone. He could only ever be at rest when he was ruling the city with the judicious pragmatism of his father, and so he grew to be a very capable Burgrave. When he grew old, he worried very much what would become of the city under his own son, who was capricious and cruel. But the crown served Juring’s grandson well, and his great-grandson, and so on.”

  Hazoth shrugged. “Even I, however, have difficulty understanding how magic changes over time. It is an unpredictable force even in the short term, and I did not know that the enchantment on the crown would only grow stronger with every passing year. The soul in the crown maintained Juring’s brilliance, but its hold on those who wore it made them weaker. The brain is like a muscle of the body. If it does not get proper exercise, it atrophies and eventually dies. Each successive Burgrave was a bigger fool than his father had been. Juring, inside the crown, had to exert more and more control over them, and more and more often had to block out their own misbegotten thoughts and replace them with his own. His character, his intelligence, was imposed on them more frequently, and they suffered for it. Now they can barely speak or count on their fingers without his consultations.” The sneer on the sorcerer’s face showed how little pity he had for the House of Tarness.

  “For a very long time there has been only one Burgrave in this city, and that has been Juring Tarness. It is an unnatural situation, and one some people would like to see changed. Juring was my good friend, and I have always been pleased that he, like myself, survived when so many of our contemporaries grew old and died. But now, perhaps, it is time for new blood to rule this place.”

  “You betrayed him,” Malden said, forgetting himself.

  Hazoth seemed not to notice this rudeness. “You speak of loyalty? The man I knew has been corrupted by eight hundred years of stealing someone else’s body. He was never meant to live that long. No man was meant to live in that fashion. The enchantment I placed on that crown was meant to last for one generation only. Say instead I am fixing a mistake I made when I was young and foolish.”

  Malden stared at the sorcerer. He could scarcely credit what he’d heard.

  Yet… the crown had spoken to him. And he did not doubt it had used Juring Tarness’s voice when it did so.

  It must be as Hazoth had described. And yet, that meant He was not allowed to finish his thought.

  “I think the crown will remain here, with me,” Hazoth said. “I considered letting you have it. Letting you take it and go free-just to see what would happen. I have a theory, you see. I have a theory that the blood of the Tarness line doesn’t matter. That Juring could control anyone who wore the crown. And I am certain you lack the power of will necessary to resist its entreaties. It would convince you somehow to place it on your own head eventually. I wondered if Juring could take some mortal clay-even such a pitiful specimen as yourself-and over time mold it into the stuff of a great leader. I do believe he could. In a span of a few years, I think, you might become king of Skrae.”

  He looked down on Malden with laughing eyes.

  “Imagine that, hmm? A whoreson made into a king. How amusing!”

  The sorcerer laughed wildly then, his tongue flapping in his mouth as he gibbered and cackled. It was not a laugh of sanity.

  Malden shivered, but not simply because of Hazoth’s lapse of lucidity. He considered what would have become of him if he had put on the crown, as he’d wanted to so badly. He didn’t doubt that Juring would have given him power in return, knowledge and advice and courage. But he would have been enslaved by it. His greatest fear, that he should lose that little shred of freedom he possessed, would have been realized.

  His heart thundered in his ears. It had been a close thing. He barely heard Hazoth when the wizard spoke again.

  “But when I tell this tale out loud, I am reminded exactly why I chose to be part of this scheme in the first place. I can’t afford to let you become king, you see. Nor can I afford to let the Tarness family-ha ha ha-tell me what to do. I can’t afford to have any rivals. No powers must remain that might conscribe me. Do you understand? I think, in fact, you might. How astonishing! How clever! And so tragic, now. No, I’m sorry, rodent. You can’t have your prize. And you can’t leave my house. Not alive, at any rate.”

  Hazoth lifted one hand, the third and fourth fingers tucked into the palm, the others outstretched. He began to lift his arm high over his head.

  “Malden!” Cythera shouted. “Cover your eyes!”

  Malden did exactly as he was told. He also grabbed the hilt of his bodkin and got ready to draw.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Drops of acid hit Croy’s arm and seared right through his leather jerkin. He shouted as the acid burned through his skin as well. Pain lanced up to his spine, while his lungs heaved against the stink of sulfur in the air. Croy couldn’t help but cough as the fumes seared his throat and eyes.

  It was the sign of weakness he had put off as long as he could. He’d finally broken. Bikker took it for exactly what it was-a call to attack, which he executed with a flurry of devastating blows, one after another. Croy managed to parry them, but not without cost. He had to stagger backward, away from the fight, and wince as the pain threatened to overcome him. He forced his eyes to stay open, to keep watching, to keep assessing the situation.

  His shield was reduced to a few sticks of sizzling oak held together by a melting boss. Far worse, the shortsword was etched and notched each time it parried Acidtongue’s attacks. Croy could feel his sword growing weaker and less stable with each passing moment.

  The weapon was still in better shape than the man, though, and that was the real problem. Already weakened by multiple wounds and loss of blood, Croy’s endurance was reaching its end very quickly. Just lifting his sword arm took a great effort and he was gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down into his eyes and he could taste the salt when it trickled across his lips. Proper swordsmanship was as much about the legs as the arms-he could hear Bikker’s voice in his head from back when the bigger swordsman had taught him how to fight. You need to move when a sword comes at your face, boy, lunge forward with your knee when you riposte, dance if you want to stay alive. His legs felt like they were made of solid wood. He could barely get his feet off the ground without falling over.

  A sweeping blow came at his injured side, Acidtongue spitting as it burned through the air. Croy barely brought the shortsword down to counter. Acidtongue flew back to recover f
rom the parry and then whistled over Bikker’s head as he brought his corroded sword up for a high slice. Croy shoved the fuming remnants of his shield up into the blow but lacked the strength to hold it back completely. Using Acidtongue like a club, Bikker knocked the shield into Croy’s teeth. Croy’s entire skull rattled and he felt his brains slosh back and forth.

  So tired.

  Parry. He tried a riposte but found the shortsword tangled in Acidtongue’s withdrawal.

  His body was failing him.

  Parry. Step back, away from the lunge, one foot behind the other to make his body a narrower target. Acidtongue jabbed past his face, and he batted it away like a cat batting at a piece of string-and just as effectually.

  He was going to collapse.

  Yielding parry-catching Acidtongue just before it cut his throat, taking Acidtongue’s foible with the shortsword’s forte. A classic parry perfectly executed, which should have given him an ideal chance to counterattack. By the time he saw the opportunity, however, Bikker was dancing away.

  Croy knew he was doomed.

  Acidtongue came rushing toward his shield. It might be a feint, which he should ignore. He lacked the strength to turn into the rush. Acidtongue picked apart the shield, scattering its pieces. Croy’s left was suddenly exposed and undefended. Bikker howled in joy and twisted around, whipping Acidtongue about and building to a slash that would cut open Croy’s belly and spill his guts on the ground.

  One last shred of strength remained in Croy’s body. He used it up stabbing downward with the shortsword, driving its point into the ground to make a wall against Acidtongue’s slash. The shortsword wobbled, good dwarven steel pushed past its limits of flexibility. Acidtongue cut through it like a ribbon. Fragments of steel flew everywhere, one of them cutting through the skin of Croy’s cheek. The sword that remained was nothing but a hilt with a jagged inch or two of blade sticking out of it. He dropped the hilt, then closed his eyes and sank down on one knee.