Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  Behind him the portcullis groaned as it started to rise again. High above, atop the wall of Castle Hill, guards began to shout, raising the hue and cry. Theoretically that call would summon every able-bodied man into the streets, to help with apprehending Croy. He knew from past experience, however, that most citizens would simply shutter their windows and bar their doors. He had chased down his own share of criminals, in more civic-minded places than the Free City of Ness.

  He bolted for Market Square just as archers appeared atop the wall. As he dodged between a row of produce stalls, an arrow flashed past his cheek and buried itself in a side of beef. Croy ducked low around the front of the butcher’s stall as more arrows peppered its tarred wooden roof.

  Not even a trained swordsman like Croy could fight off a rain of arrows. Using the stalls as cover, he made a short line for the side of the square, where the custom house and a granary pressed close together. Between them a narrow alley ran down to Prosper Street, a broad avenue full of horses and carts. Squeezing out of the alley, he stared wildly down the street, hoping desperately it would be clear of watchmen. He saw none and dashed downhill. Men screamed and pressed up close to the shops on either side of the street when they saw his wound. It must be grisly indeed.

  “Stop him!” someone shouted from behind Croy. He did not pause to look and see who it was. Just before him a cart full of boxes of fresh fish was headed down into the Golden Slope. Croy launched himself into the air and landed hard on his shoulder in a pile of smelts and sardines.

  “Who—what . . . ?” The driver of the cart stared at Croy with wide eyes and gaping mouth. As Croy pulled himself up on the side of the cart and tried to think of what to say to the man, the driver shouted in fear and jumped off his bench and into the street. He hit the cobblestones wrong and went rolling away, even as the horses pulled their cart ever onward, leaving him far behind.

  “Blast,” Croy cursed. He got one leg onto the bench and tried to grab for the reins. The pair of horses must have smelled the blood on him, however, for they whinnied in fear and bolted downhill. He fell tumbling back into the fish, which were flying out the back of the cart and leaving a silver trail on the street behind.

  The cart jumped and bounced—it had never been meant to travel at such speed. Croy found it barely possible to get to his feet and climb up onto the bench. The reins were dragging in the street, hanging down between the traces where he couldn’t reach them. The horses’ hooves were thundering on the cobbles, their iron shoes clanging so loud he could hardly hear himself think.

  A boy—an apprentice in some trade, judging by his leather smock—barely jumped away in time before he was trampled. A wagon full of hay blocked half the road ahead, and Croy was certain he would smash against it, but the horses pulling the cart were not so made as to run headlong into that obstacle. They turned at the last possible moment, throwing the cart up on one wheel. Croy fell sideways as the seat under him shifted and nearly fell out of the cart, only holding on with one hand to its side, his feet bouncing and dragging on the cobblestones. He considered just letting go—he would hit the street hard and roll for a ways, but then at least he would be off the runaway vehicle.

  But no—that he could not do. Without him on board, the cart would be totally out of control. The horses would run roughshod over anyone who stood in their way. He couldn’t live with the notion of someone being hurt because he had to get away from the castle in a hurry. Fighting the pain of his wound and the red haze that filmed his eyes, Croy dragged himself back up onto the cart as both wheels crashed back onto the pavement. Heaving and grunting, he pulled himself into the seat, and looked forward to see where he was headed.

  Ahead in the street men and women went racing in a panic to get out of the way of the runaway cart. Croy shouted out to warn them and waved his hands, but the only way he could avoid catastrophe was to get the cart back under control. Wounded as he was, that would take some doing.

  Prosper Street ran down the length of the Golden Slope at a steep grade that only added to the horses’ headlong speed. It traveled straight as an arrow’s flight down into the Smoke, where it lost itself among a maze of byways. If he didn’t slow the horses before they reached that district, the cart would surely crash. As the maddened beasts threw themselves downhill, Croy stepped out onto the tongue between them and then threw himself over the back of the left-hand horse, the leader of the team.

  “Whoa, whoa, easy there,” he said, trying to soothe the animal. He clutched to its mane and did his best not to be bucked off. The horse turned one wild eye to stare at him and bit at the air with its massive teeth. “All’s well, be at ease,” Croy crooned, but the horse merely redoubled its efforts to shake him free. This was no destrier, bred for war and trained by a horsemaster. It was a simple dray animal that had never known such excitement.

  The horse on the right, the wheel horse, perhaps thinking its mate was under attack, nipped at Croy’s shoulder. He pulled back to avoid it and nearly fell off.

  Clearly the horses had no intention of obeying his commands. By giving them a common enemy to face he had slowed them a trifle, but there was still great danger of a crash. To save his own life he might leap off the horse’s back—but at this speed he would hit the cobbles like a catapult stone.

  He looked ahead and saw that the horses were only a few seconds from reaching the Smoke. The street there curved around a tanner’s yard. It would be impossible for the cart to turn at speed and follow the road.

  “You have my apologies, fishmonger,” he said to the poor driver of the cart who was about to lose his livelihood. Then he drew his shortsword and sliced through all the traces that held the horses to the cart.

  The effect was instantaneous. The wheel horse, riderless, broke for freedom and galloped down a side street. The leader, with Croy on its back, jogged out of harness and took the turn around the tanner’s yard at speed. Just behind Croy the cart slammed into a fence of wooden palings and disintegrated, its cargo exploding into the air in a rain of silver mackerel and cod.

  The noise only frightened Croy’s horse more. It began to stand and balk, and it was more than Croy could do to hold on. His shortsword went clattering into the street and then his left leg got tangled in the harness. Trying to pull it free only unseated him and he was thrown to the ground, with barely enough time to tuck and roll so his neck wasn’t broken. He somersaulted out of the way of the horse’s flashing hooves and then fell back, beaten, bruised, and exhausted, and watched it run away from him, into the warren of convoluted streets that made up the Smoke.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  There was nothing Croy wanted more than to just lie down on the cobbles and rest a moment. His body was wracked with pain and he was still bleeding from the wound in his back. Yet he knew it would be only moments before the watch found him there—he had hardly covered his tracks on the way. He rolled onto his side and put a hand down on the cobbles. His strength was faltering and he could barely sit up.

  The wound in his back must be deep. He could not afford to lose any more blood. His shortsword lay in the street next to his outflung hand. He grabbed it up and used it to cut off a wide swath of his cloak. This he tied around his back, as tight as he could bear. It might help, a little. Then again, it might be too late. He had already lost a great deal of blood. He had rarely felt so close to death before. Never had its chill embrace seemed more welcoming, more to be desired.

  Yet there was that within him that refused to give up. As tempting as it might be to close his eyes and let slumber take him, his work was not yet done. Cythera and her mother remained enslaved. Hazoth still had the Burgrave’s crown. He had to get up. He had to move from this place. He could rest, he promised himself, but only once he found a safe place to lie down. Where that might be, he had little idea.

  As long as he lived, though—as long as Cythera needed his help—he had to make the best of what strength he had. And that meant standing up.

  He regained his feet. He
did not know how he did it—the simple act of putting one foot under him, then the other, made his vision go black and his brain howl in protest until he could not think. His muscles were trained to keep going, though, no matter what occurred. They got him upright and walking.

  He struggled with the remains of his tattered cloak, managing to pull it over the hilts of his swords so they didn’t show. Down here, armed citizens were rare, and the swords would draw exactly the kind of attention he wanted to avoid. Not that he saw anyone about—or much of anything at all, really.

  The air was thick with smoke and fumes, unhealthy vapors rising from the rendering vats in the tanner’s yard. Down the street a great pillar of ash and sparks rose from an iron foundry. The Smoke was shrouded in a poisonous miasma at all times—on an overcast day like this its air was as thick as porridge. This foul air and its characteristic stench would flow downhill, into the district of poverty and crime called the Stink. It was the fumes that gave the Stink its name. He headed down a long street with no doors or windows, only blank walls like a great chute. At its end was an open yard where Croy saw two men in a ropewalk, walking backward as they braided together stout cords into rope. One made a joke and the other laughed boisterously. As he staggered past they turned to stare at him. One called out, but Croy couldn’t understand what he said—the blood was pounding too loud in his ears.

  He passed a cooperage where workers scorched the insides of barrels by swishing spirits of wine around inside them and then setting them alight. Red fireballs leapt from the mouth of each barrel as the lighter ducked down out of the way.

  Next door was a brewery, the air around it thick with the smell of fermenting hops and steam off the great malting kettles. Croy started belching as he passed through a thick cloud of vapor. For a moment he could see nothing, the acrid cloud making his eyes water.

  When he stumbled out of the cloud, someone put their arm around his shoulders.

  “Careful now, friend! I mean you no harm,” the stranger cooed as Croy reeled away and tried to draw his shortsword.

  He let his hand fall back. “I know you—urk—not,” Croy said.

  “Ah, but I’m your best friend in the world, aren’t I? A fellow like you needs a good friend at a time like this. Here, lean against me, I’m solid enough.”

  The stranger was a fattish man in a tight jerkin and leather breeches. His eyes were set close together and he had very little in the way of a chin. He was certainly no watchman, nor a palace guard. He had a belt knife but no other visible weapons.

  “Don’t I have an honest face? Ha ha,” the man laughed. “Come with me now, we’ll see you safe and warm in a moment. I know a little place right around the corner.”

  He thinks me drunk, Croy thought. “What kind of place?”

  “A sort of temple,” the stranger told him. “A little shrine, for the right sort of devotee. Ha ha. It’s just up here.”

  Had he been feeling stronger, Croy might have shaken the man off. He knew what game was being played out here. He lacked the strength to walk away, though. As it was, he had to lean hard on the stranger, but they managed to turn the corner. He had fully expected the man to lead him into an alleyway and there try to slit his throat, but it seemed this little temple was a real place: a tavern, where workers just coming off their shifts were spending the little pay they’d earned that day. It had an open storefront where an alewife poured ladles of watered wine for passersby. Behind her Croy could see a roaring fire and a crowded common room.

  It would be good to get out of the mist and dry off, he thought. And perhaps a drink would bolster his flagging body. The laughing stranger hurried him inside and made a hand sign at the taverner, who leaned on a second bar inside. “Here, give me a coin, will you? An offering to the god of the house, call it. Ha ha.”

  Croy drew a coin from his purse and too late saw that it was silver. It was already in the stranger’s hand. “Ooh, pretty, hark the way it shines, hmm? This’ll do nicely, ha ha. Come, let us find a place to sit, oh, it’s quite crowded out here, isn’t it?”

  “Private room,” Croy rasped. “I need to—sit down.”

  “Sure you do. Long day’s work for men like us, hmm? This way, this way, mind that fellow’s feet, he’s a real rough customer, wouldn’t want to start anything, ha ha, here, here, no, over here, through the door, that’s right. Here’s a bench for you, and a little table. And, ah! Here comes the priest himself to perform the mass.”

  “Stow that nonsense, Tyron,” the taverner said, backing through the door with a tray in his hands. He set an earthenware bottle of distilled spirit and two goblets on the table, but poured into only one of them. “He’s probably so far gone he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.” He scratched his eyebrow with one filthy nail, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. The stranger—Tyron—nodded discreetly. So the taverner was in on the scheme, Croy realized.

  Croy leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sitting down was helping, he thought. He hadn’t realized how taxing just walking through bad air could be. A little strength trickled back into his arms.

  “A bit of this will have you back on your feet, ha ha,” Tyron said, and pushed the full goblet toward him. Croy made a show of reaching for it, then knocked it over clumsily so its contents spilled across the table. The liquor had the viscous consistency and milky color of blisswine. Even if it wasn’t adulterated with some drug—and Croy was certain it was—it would have put him to sleep before he finished the generous portion. “Oh, clumsy, and that stuff’s expensive, ha ha,” Tyron japed, “lucky for me it’s not my coin. Here, lean back, that’s right. Get comfortable. There’s no place for you to be, nothing needs doing. Let me loosen your cloak for you, it’s catching at your neck.” Nimble fingers undid the clasp and the cloak fell away from Croy’s shoulders. “And here, this is too tight as well,” Tyron said, reaching toward Croy’s belt. Instead of opening the buckle, however, he began to pull at the strings of Croy’s purse.

  Croy lunged forward and knocked Tyron to the floor. The villain wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way as Croy’s shortsword sprang from its scabbard and came around in a weak swing—all he could manage—that left its point gently touching Tyron’s throat.

  “Thief,” Croy said. “You thought I was drunk. You were going to—what’s the word—roll me. Weren’t you? Take my money and leave me unconscious in an alley.”

  “No, friend, you have me all wrong, ha ha,” Tyron said, his eyes very bright.

  “Don’t lie,” Croy said, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch. It brought the point of his shortsword that much closer to the man’s jugular vein.

  “Ha ha, now don’t be so hasty, milord,” Tyron said, his eyes roaming around the room. “There’s plenty of fellows outside that door who know me. And none who know you from the Lady’s archpriest, do they?”

  “I can cut your throat before you can call for help,” Croy pointed out. “Then I can—I can walk . . . walk out of here, and none the wiser.”

  “They know the score,” Tyron said. He wasn’t laughing now. “If you leave here without my arm around your shoulders, they’ll know something’s gone wrong. They’ll stop you before you reach the street.”

  “That,” Croy managed to growl, “will be of little comfort to you, as you’ll be dead back here before I open the door.”

  “All right. All right. Take your ease,” Tyron pleaded. “Tell me what you want of me, and I’ll do it. I swear. Just take that cutter away from my throat.”

  A service. The man would perform a service, in exchange for his life. It was like the old stories. Like the tales of demons bound to grant wishes. But what did he wish for at this moment? What could possibly help him? He was lost in the Smoke, away from all friends and aid. Away from anyone who could ensure his safety. Nor could he count on his friends anymore. The rich friend who he had been staying with—the fellow who was kind enough to loan his horse—would surely turn his back on him now. Before, Croy had been a f
igure of fascination, a symbol of the man’s generosity. Now he was a wanted criminal. No, even if his friend would take him in, Croy knew he would be doing him a great disservice by going back there. He thought of Murd-lin, the dwarf envoy. Murdlin had saved him from the gallows once. But he’d also said their account was square, that he had repaid Croy in full. Dwarves never forgot a debt—but they never gave anything on credit either.

  Perhaps, though—perhaps he could call not on a friend but on an acquaintance. Someone with whom he shared the slenderest of links, but a link nonetheless. There was one man in the Stink, one man who cared for Cythera, just as he did. One thief. Tyron might even know him—or at least how to reach him.

  “You like silver, don’t you? Don’t you?” Croy demanded.

  “Oh, aye, and who doesn’t?” Tyron wheedled.

  “Do me a service, and earn it, then. I have a message to send. And I think you might know how to deliver it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “It’s just as I said, ha ha,” Tyron told them. “Look, he’s weak as a kitten. Three against one, those are fine odds. We cut his throat while he’s sleeping, that makes even better sense. Then we take his silver and dump the body in the Skrait, yes? It’ll be out in the ocean to be nibbled by the fishes before anyone even knows he’s gone.”

  Malden shot a glance sideways at Kemper. The intangible sharper kept his face as still as stone, no doubt thinking exactly what he was thinking.

  “Keep your voice down,” Malden whispered. “If he wakes it’ll take more than us to put him to sleep again.”

  “It don’t take three men t’slit some sleepin’ bugger’s neckpipe,” Kemper advised in even lower tones.

  “You can’t cut me out of this. I know too much, ha ha,” Tyron said. “I’ve seen his face. A man of quality like that. A knight, or better, he is. But wounded like this, and so far from Castle Hill. There must be someone—ha ha—looking for him. But not someone, I wager, he wants to be found by. Else why would he have sent for the likes of you two? He’s trouble, this one. You think the watch won’t want to hear about this?”