“Oh, yes. Very well, in fact. He trained me.” Croy rose carefully from the bed, walked over to the window and looked out at the rain, which had grown stronger overnight. “The swords are immortal, but the swordsmen are not. As each Ancient Blade ages and grows infirm, he finds a suitable heir to take the sword and the oath that comes with it. It’s up to the others to teach this new blade how to fight. It is a sacred duty and not lightly conferred—but only twice has a blade failed to be passed on correctly. Two of the swords, Fangbreaker and Dawnbringer, were stolen from us by barbarians. Where they are now, no civilized man knows.”
Croy stared into the middle distance, as if he could find the lost swords in his own memory. Then he shook his head and continued with his tale.
“When I received Ghostcutter from its previous owner, there were five of us, gallant knights all. We were in service to the king, at his fortress at Helstrow. It was our duty to protect him from any demons his enemies summoned to attack him.”
“Why aren’t you there now?” Malden asked.
Croy lowered his head as if he were ashamed of the answer. “The king died. He was poisoned by one of his courtiers. His son, the new king, discharged us. He claimed we were bad bodyguards who had failed to protect our master. We tried to explain that our brief was not to protect against poison, but only demonkind. He didn’t listen. Demons are rarely seen in this world nowadays. Our sacred work is rarely called for—as vital as it may be, it’s difficult to explain to people how important we are when no one has seen a demon at large for nearly fifty years. The new king didn’t understand why he should pay us to train endlessly for a threat that never came. He expected us to do other service to earn our keep. The five of us were forced to split up and go out into the world and find new occupation, wherever we could. Bikker brought me here, where we both swore allegiance to the Burgrave.”
“That doesn’t seem to be working so well,” Malden pointed out.
Croy glared at him.
The thief shrugged off the knight’s disdain. “I speak nothing but fact. Neither of you works for the Burgrave anymore. Bikker’s working for the Burgrave’s enemies now. And the Burgrave sentenced you to death.”
“I haven’t forgotten my oath, all the same. As for Bikker—something changed inside him. With nothing much to do, he grew bored here. There was not enough action to satisfy his bloodlust, and a man like Bikker must fight or he begins to die inside. Everything that was noble and valiant in him perished for lack of use. It was a great tragedy—but I cannot forgive him for what he has become. He broke his promise to the Burgrave and now he sells his services—and Acidtongue’s—to the highest bidder. I called him faithless when he left the Burgrave’s employ. I insulted his honor.” Croy shook his head. “Now he seeks satisfaction for that slight. He will kill me if he catches me.”
“What, because you called him a bad name?” Malden asked.
“Sure, son, an’ only apologize, an’ make it better, like,” Kemper suggested.
“It was unforgivable, what I said. Don’t you understand? Honor is everything to such as Bikker and myself. An insult like that is a mortal blow.” Croy studied Malden and Kemper with a questioning eye. “You don’t understand at all. Is it true what they say, then, that there is no honor among thieves?”
“Aye,” Kemper said.
“Yes,” Malden agreed.
Croy grunted in distaste.
Malden felt the need to explain. “If that’s how you define honor, anyway. When you’re poor you can’t afford to take offense. If I had to kill every man who ever swore an oath in my presence . . . well, Ness wouldn’t be so crowded anyway. But I suppose it’s different for the nobility. When two men in the Stink come to blows in a tavern, it’s assault, and they’re both put in the stocks. When a baronet and an earl hack away at each other with their swords, that’s a duel, and half the city comes out to cheer.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way,” Croy said.
And Malden believed him. Looking into the knight’s eyes, he was convinced, utterly, that Croy’s world really was that simple. That honor meant the difference between life and death. That there were more important things in the world than a full belly and a warm place to sleep.
And of course, in that world damsels in distress had to be rescued.
“Where does Cythera come into all this?” Malden asked.
Croy’s eyes sparkled at the sound of her name. “It was while working for the Burgrave that I first met her. She and her mother lived in the Golden Slope then. Her mother is a witch, did you know that?”
“She mentioned it,” Malden said.
Croy smiled. “Perhaps you think that I mean she is some toothless hag, selling powdered bat wings and working simple hexes on strayed lovers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Witchcraft is simpler than sorcery, but it’s cleaner, too. Coruth—Cythera’s mother—counted half the best families of Ness amongst her clients. She consulted with the Burgrave on matters magical . . . and once, when she came to the palace, she brought her daughter with her. Cythera. I was enchanted when I first laid eyes on her.”
Malden looked away. He could understand only too well.
“We barely exchanged a half dozen words at that first meeting,” Croy said. “Yet I knew when first we met that I would love her forever. I asked her to promise she would be mine someday. She wanted to say yes but she knew she was not her own mistress, not so long as Hazoth lays claim to her services. Anyway, she was too young then to make such a weighty decision. Now she has flowered into womanhood.”
“Flowered is the right word,” Malden said, thinking of her tattoos.
Croy didn’t seem to get the joke.
“Never mind. Tell me more of Coruth. How did she end up in Hazoth’s thrall?”
“For defying him. About ten years ago she decided to take Cythera away from here—she considered Hazoth to be an ill influence on Cythera’s education. She knew Hazoth wouldn’t like it. Should Cythera ever get more than a few miles away from him, the link between the two of them will cease to function and he’ll be prey to every demon in the pit. Coruth knew he would do anything to keep that link in place. She tried to flee Ness with Cythera anyway. They made it as far as the city gates, but then—then Hazoth worked a spell on Coruth. He forced her to march back to his villa and submit herself to imprisonment in a magic circle. His power was just too great to resist. Cythera was immune to the spell, but for her mother’s sake she could only watch in horror as Coruth struggled and writhed, fighting every step.”
“Coruth has been locked away in the villa ever since?” Malden asked.
“Should she become free even for an instant, she could wreak a terrible revenge on Hazoth. He’ll never let her go willingly, and as long as he has her, he has Cythera, too.” Croy laughed. “That’s where we come in. Together we’ll fight our way into the villa, striking down every man who—”
“Sneak,” Malden said.
“What?”
“We aren’t going to fight our way in. We’re going to steal in during the night and get the crown before Hazoth even knows we’re there.”
“And free Coruth in the process, yes?” Croy asked. He looked like he didn’t like what he was hearing.
“If I can. For Cythera’s sake,” Malden said.
Croy seemed to take that as a yes. He clapped Malden on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, even if you are a thief. For Cythera! You can keep the blasted crown. Once Cythera is free of Hazoth’s bondage, she and I can marry. She will bear me a son, and if he is worthy, I will pass Ghostcutter to him when I am too old to lift it.”
He strode over to Kemper and took the sword from the card sharp’s hands. Kemper didn’t try to stop him. The silver edge of the sword was one of the few weapons that could kill him, after all. Croy lifted the sword above his head and made a swooshing pass through the air with it, careful not to break any of Malden’s simple possessions.
“In the past, I have been . . . confused. My duty to the
Burgrave and my devotion to Cythera were at odds. Now I see, though, that destiny has led me to this pass. By freeing Cythera, I will recover the crown—and keep to both my oaths. My heart is clear.”
He seemed lost in a reverie. Malden took the opportunity to whisper to Kemper, “What make you of this story?”
Kemper laughed. “Methinks we’ve a walkin’ fairy tale in this ’un. Never once did I hear such piffle afore. Yet I heard he fought his way out o’ Castle Hill ’gainst two dozen men or more. I wouldn’t cross him, if’n I was you.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe we should have just cut his throat when we had the chance.”
“O’ course, mayhap there’s a way to profit o’ this anyway,” Kemper pointed out. “There’s liable to be some fightin’, afore this is all through.”
Malden looked over at the knight and the swords he was holding in his hands. “We could use a man who’s good with a sword, it’s true. This one’s wounded, though. He wouldn’t last five seconds against Hazoth’s guards.”
“Mayhap we don’t need to tell the guards that he’s hurt,” Kemper said. “I bet they take one look at ’im and run off.”
It was possible, Malden thought. Certainly, having the knight on their crew wouldn’t hurt.
While they spoke, Croy pulled on his clothes and put both his swords back in their rightful scabbards. Any idea Malden had possessed of keeping the knight as his prisoner was forgotten. “I’ve listened to your story, Sir Croy,” he said, “and I’ve decided to help you.” Of course, he’d always meant to steal the crown back. Frankly, as he saw it things were the other way around—he would allow the knight to help him. But it didn’t hurt if Croy saw it his own way. “Together we’ll retrieve the crown, and together we’ll save Cythera.”
“You’re a good man. I knew it when first we met,” Croy said, bounding over to grasp Malden by the forearms. “I saw in your eyes that you were a friend of Cythera.”
“A . . . friend. Yes,” Malden said. “Of course, I will expect some sort of recompense for my trouble.”
Croy’s face darkened in mid-beam. “I told you, I can’t offer you any money.”
“No,” Malden said, putting an arm around Croy’s shoulders. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But you do have one other thing that I want.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Later that day, Malden climbed up on top of a house in the Stink near the cloth market. Below him lay Woolcomb Square—actually a triangular space where five roads came together—with merchants doing a bustling trade, hanging out bolts of fine loden and broadcloth on high wooden racks. The women who came there to buy grabbed up handfuls of the stuff and rubbed it against their cheeks to test its softness, or tugged hard at it to measure its strength.
In their midst a girl in a tattered kirtle sold ribbon from a tray around her neck, lengths of her wares hanging down like multicolored tongues. The ribbon covered her hands nicely, and Malden watched with professional appreciation as she went up to one goodwife after another and clutched at their skirts, begging them to buy a little something so her family wouldn’t starve. When inevitably the female citizens clouted her across the ear to make her give off, she would cry and run away—straight to the dilapidated stall of a button seller who never seemed to make a sale. Her tiny hand would plunge deep into a barrel full of sequins and the button seller would nod in satisfaction. She was good, this urchin, and Malden chuckled because he never saw the coins she stole. She was just that fast.
Behind him Croy clambered up over a gutter and onto the roof. Malden gestured for him to get down, to lie prone on the scorching-hot shingles, just as he had.
“I beg your pardon for taking so long getting up here,” Croy said. His face was white as milk. “I fear I’m not fully recovered yet.”
“I’m less worried about your speed than your noise,” Malden told him in a harsh whisper. “With all the metal you’re carrying, you clang and rattle like a cutler’s wagon. Do you really need to carry both those swords all the time?”
Croy frowned. “Well, yes. Ghostcutter has a special destiny, and should be saved for high combat, while simple bladework demands my shortsword, which—”
“Spare me,” Malden said. He returned to studying the market below. “You’re certain Cythera will come here today?”
“Once a month she ventures here from Hazoth’s villa to replace worn or stained cloths,” Croy told him. “Beyond her duties as a deflector of curses, she serves as the mistress of his household. All the necessities of life are her responsibility, as he cannot be bothered to see to his own arrangements. He spends every day in his laboratory or his sanctum, deeply absorbed in his studies.”
“You’ve been watching his movements, too,” Malden said. “Studying him with equal diligence.”
“When I returned to the city I think I already knew that eventually I must face him. He will never let her go for any price. She’s far too valuable to him—without her, he must suffer the rivalry of every demon in the pit, and be beset by the curses they send his way on a daily basis. No, I must force him to release her, one way or another.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for.”
Croy frowned. “Are you truly sure we must involve her? She’s pledged to his service. She might betray us if we let her know what we plan.”
He had thought the same thing, of course. Yet he saw no other way. “If we’re to have any chance at all,” Malden said, “any hope, we need her on our side. If there’s a way she can help us that doesn’t put her in danger, I’ll take it. But this is too important not to try to enlist her aid. Surely she’ll want to help us, since we’re her only chance, too.”
“I pray you’re right.”
Malden watched with a frown as the ribbon girl’s hand was seized by an especially wary shopper. Great sobbing tears and wails granted her no mercy, and the goodwife squeezed her hand until it opened. The ribbon girl held up her empty palm as emblem of her innocence, and the goodwife was forced to release her. The ribbon girl ran off as fast she could, pitching her ribbon tray on a pile of ordure in an alley. The ribbons had been worthless tat, Malden realized, valued only for the cover they gave her real occupation. Now that she was under suspicion it meant nothing to her. Ah, and it was too bad—a good scheme, but now the game was up. Doubtless she’d have another scheme cooked up by tomorrow, though. The button seller did not react at all to her desertion.
There was still no sign of Cythera. Malden shifted his position slightly to get more comfortable on the shingles. It might be a long wait.
“One thing I don’t understand. What does Hazoth want with the crown? Does he simply wish to study its enchantment?” he asked.
Croy had no good answer. “It puzzles me as well. Hazoth was a good friend of the first Burgrave, Juring Tarness. They fought together against the elves that once held this place. Hazoth was instrumental to the founding of Ness. In the intervening years he’s showed no sign of rebellion—Ness has always been a safe haven for him. He’s been protected here, where sorcerers in other cities have been burned at the stake. In return for that protection he’s always supported the Burgravate to the best of his powers. A less civic-minded sorcerer would have been run out of the Free City long since—he would have been burned at the stake. Such men rarely live long, and yet Hazoth has persisted through centuries.”
“I imagine knowing all that magic helps,” Malden pointed out.
“He is a powerful sorcerer. From the tales I’ve heard, though, he must have changed much over the centuries. In those days, before the Free City had its charter, Juring Tarness was a great general. He defended the kingdom against the elves and then against the dwarves, who had better weapons and impregnable fortresses all through this land. Hazoth turned the tide in that conflict, as the dwarves had no sorcerers of their own and could not resist his magic. Hazoth was hailed as a great hero, and Juring a protector of the realm.”
“I saw the campaign banners hanging in his tower room, when I took t
he crown,” Malden said, thinking hard. “A great leader of men, was he?”
“Juring? Oh, yes. They say his voice had the power to compel. It was not magic, I think, but sheer force of character.”
“So anyone he spoke to would be inspired to follow his orders. Interesting.” Malden was beginning to put together a few facts, but so far he had no conclusions. He made a mental note to revisit the idea again.
Croy’s voice had a note of the highest admiration as he said, “Juring was a born ruler, and yet he served his king faithfully. When he founded the city, he proved—as is not often the case—to be as good a statesman as he was a warrior. The king of that era asked him what reward he would choose for his service. Juring could have had anything—riches, a grand fief, a personal army. Instead he requested freedom for the people of Ness. They had supported him through a long and trying campaign, you see. A time of great suffering for his army. He used his reward to give them perpetual safety from taxes and bondservice. The freedom you now possess is only guaranteed by the charter he asked the king to sign. In fact—”
“Hold,” Malden said.
Down in the market, Cythera had arrived. She was dressed in a fine purple velvet cloak and moved listlessly from stall to stall, barely fingering the cloth on display. She was followed by one of Hazoth’s retainers, a sallow-faced man with a chain-mail shirt and an axe on his belt. He pushed a barrow to hold her purchases, but his eyes were watching the crowd, perhaps searching every face for sign of threat.
“I hoped she would come alone,” Malden said. The plan had been to draw her into some secluded bystreet, and there converse with her in private. It was crucial she not be seen talking with either him or Croy, as word of such a meeting would doubtless get back to Hazoth. “All right,” he said. “This will just take a bit of cunning. Follow me down.”
The two of them climbed down a drainpipe on the side of the house, out of view of the crowded market. Croy had some trouble on the way down and nearly fell, but he caught himself in time. Malden led him around a corner and back into the market from a different direction. He did not approach Cythera directly, but made sure to cross her path so she saw the two of them.
Den of Thieves Page 28