“You! Up there! Thief!” Anselm Vry shouted, peering up into the dome. “That’s a funny jape you’ve made. Now give the damned thing back.”
“Or what, Anselm? You’ll have me killed?” Malden spoke at a normal conversational tone, but the dome amplified his voice until he was sure Vry could hear him. “If I give it back, will you let me live?”
“Give it back! Give it back! I like this one, it’s not as heavy,” Ommen cried.
Vry silenced him with another slap. “Thief, let’s be reasonable. We both know I can’t let you live. I can kill you now, though, quickly and almost painlessly. We can spare you the agony of torture and the embarrassment of being drawn and quartered in public. Surely you’d rather avoid that.”
Malden laughed. “Perhaps you’d be willing to fight for it. Of course, that’s not your style. All your men are outside. You even sent the priests away. You’d have to face me alone.”
“That’s not going to happen. I am curious to know, however, what you thought you could achieve here.”
“I’m going to save my life, and Cutbill’s as well.”
“So you think you can escape,” Vry said. “I suppose it’s possible. You could flee across the rooftops, while my men would have to push through the crowds to give chase. I’ll grant you might make it as far as the city’s walls. What would you do then? You’re no landowner. Once outside the gates, you would become a simple villein. A peasant. Little more than a slave. You would save your life but lose your freedom. I know your type, thief. You don’t want to spend the rest of your days laboring on a farm.”
“Hardly. All right, Vry. I’ll make you a deal. I think you’ll find it a bargain.” Malden swung the crown back out on the end of its line and started to lower it again. “I only wish to assuage my curiosity. Answer a few questions truthfully, and we’ll end this.”
Vry looked around him, as if to make sure no priests were hiding in the corners of the chapel, listening. “Very well.”
Malden unreeled a bit of line. The crown descended a dozen feet, then stopped with a jerk. He must be careful, he thought, not to let the line snap. “You were Bikker’s employer, weren’t you? The theft of the crown was your idea from the beginning.”
Vry’s face clouded with rage. “I’ll admit nothing under this duress, you—”
He stopped talking when Malden started reeling the line in again.
“Yes,” Vry said, balling his fists in anger. “Yes, it was me.”
Malden paid out a dozen more feet of line. “But not you alone. You formed a conspiracy of three to make this happen. I’m impressed, honestly. The chance of such a plot working out is inversely proportionate to how many people know of its existence. You did all this—you may still bring a city to its knees!—with only three people. You promised Hazoth safety for his services. You hired Bikker because as an Ancient Blade he was likely to notice there were more demons about than usual, and he might feel the need to stop you and Hazoth. When Croy returned to town you must have been very worried.”
“Sir Croy? Indeed. The Ancient Blades don’t have any more demons to fight, so they wander the land righting wrongs and helping people.” Vry sneered at the thought. “They’re always poking their noses in where they don’t belong, and since Croy technically outranks me in the peerage, I had to find a way to neutralize him. Juring always had a soft spot for that fool. It took real cunning on my part to have him banished—and then to force the Burgrave’s hand on his return, to enforce the penalty of execution.”
“And when that didn’t work out—when Croy got away—you came up with another scheme. You played him like a fish on a line, pretending to do everything in your power to find the crown. But Croy is a simple man and he doesn’t suspect treachery until it’s proven to him. I myself was nearly fooled by your performance in Cutbill’s lair. It seemed you really wanted to find the crown. Even when you sent your men to Hazoth’s home and had them search the place—even when they left empty-handed, we both thought you were just an overly officious bureaucrat. That you were hampered by rules and laws, and thus ineffectual. You’ve played this game well. I wasn’t entirely sure until I handed you the false crown last night. You acted as if it was talking to you—though we both know it was false. That was when I became certain. You didn’t want the crown back. Even while you made a good show of looking for it, in fact you were making sure nobody could get to it.”
“Very clever of you. Yes,” Vry admitted. “You have the gist of it.”
“I am still not certain why you did it, though,” Malden said. He lowered the crown farther. “What benefit will come to you? When Ommen walks out there and makes a fool of himself before the entire city—the repercussions will be dire. The people will realize they’re being ruled by a fool, and they won’t stand for it. They’ll riot in the streets—especially when you spur them on.”
“No one likes being hoodwinked,” Vry said when Malden paused. “The people of Ness have so much freedom, they love to gripe and grumble about the slightest stricture. If I show them their master is a half-wit, they’ll refuse to obey even his just laws. And when the violence does not stop, when the gutters run red with blood, the king will know that the Burgrave is incapable of running the city. He will surely revoke the city’s charter. Every man in Ness will lose his freedom.”
Malden shrugged. “Every man who does not own property,” he said, and let out more line. “Such as yourself.” The crown was barely six feet above the head of the Burgrave now. “But the free men of Ness are its heart’s blood. Their labor creates wealth. That was Juring Tarness’s brilliant idea—and it worked. It worked for eight hundred years. Free men will work to make something of themselves. What do you stand to gain when they are enslaved?”
“Power, obviously.” Anselm Vry reached up his hands to snatch at the crown. Malden jerked it away from him. Sighing deeply, Vry said, “You don’t understand anything. When the charter is revoked, this city will be plunged into chaos. The only force for law and order inside the walls will be me, and my men of the watch. It will be up to us to keep the city from erupting into mutiny. And when we do—when we suppress revolt, and reestablish the king’s rule here—how grateful do you think he’ll be? He will need someone to rule the city then. Obviously, he will choose me.”
“Thousands may die,” Malden said. “Shops will shut down, entire guilds will go out of business. The city you inherit will be half dead.”
“But it will be mine. To rule as I see fit—by fire and iron. No longer will I be constrained by the laws of the charter. No longer need I answer to the moothall and the guildmasters who control it. It will all be mine, and mine alone. The first year will be hard. There will be little money coming in and people will starve, yes. The second year they will pay me any price I ask for bread. They will accept much higher rates of taxation, in exchange for their lives. It’s a long game I’m playing. But in the end I am guaranteed to win.”
“I can see the appeal,” Malden said. “And I salute you.”
“Oh?”
“You’re far more crooked than any thief I know. You have my respect. Very well. Here’s what you wanted.” With a flick of his wrist, Malden sent the crown dancing through the air to come to rest on Ommen’s head. He cut the line that held it and collapsed his pole. “I wish you much joy of it.”
And then he laughed.
“Watchmen! Priests! Get in here now,” Vry shouted. Doors around the nave flew open and the summoned ones came flooding in.
Ommen Tarness straightened up, his posture improving instantly. “Hold,” he said, and everyone froze. There was something in his voice that commanded attention—and imposed his will on every listener. “I have heard enough,” he said.
Or rather, Juring Tarness said it.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Earlier—just at dawn—Gurrh the ogre had brought the leaden coffer to Swampwall, his home for so many years. He laid it down in the soft soil and then started bashing at it with his massive, hairy fis
ts.
Eventually it came open. The true crown was inside, just as expected.
Malden had been there to see it emerge. Coruth the witch flew him through the air so he would not be late. He thanked Gurrh, who bowed deeply and then returned to his pipe. Then Malden approached the crown, his hands shaking it a little. He lifted it carefully and heard its voice begin to command him. Before he could be overcome, before it could make him put it on his own head, he shoved it into a burlap sack and slung it over his shoulder. Still, it continued to speak to him, made imprecations and promises and outright threats—until Malden explained to it what he had planned. Then at last, thankfully, the crown became quiet.
Later, when Malden drew the false crown to the dome of the chapel with Slag’s fishing pole, it was a simple matter to switch it with the true crown—the crown he had lowered once more onto Ommen’s head.
The transformation in the Burgrave was instantaneous. Juring Tarness resumed his control of his imbecilic descendant, and heard everything that was said within the chapel.
“You would depose me, Anselm?” Juring asked then. He looked down at the bailiff. Standing straight, he was many inches taller than his servant. “You would go to such lengths to take what is mine?”
“Milord,” Vry said, bowing low. “This was a tale, only, a fabrication spun to appease the thief when—”
“No more lies,” the Burgrave shouted. The priests and watchmen around him all drew back. Juring drew a jeweled dagger from his belt. It was one of his symbols of office, mostly for ornament’s sake. The blade was kept sharp, though, to represent the keen insight the Burgrave brought to his office. “Kneel,” he said.
Vry turned to face his watchmen. “The Burgrave is ensorcelled!” he cried. “Seize him—we must perform an exorcism at once. You, high priest, fetch the appropriate vestments and the holy thurible and—”
“I said, kneel,” the Burgrave said again. Neither watchmen nor priests moved from where they stood.
Vry tried to run. The Burgrave grabbed the back of his cloak and pushed him to the ground. Then he grabbed the bailiff’s hair and pulled his head back. “No more lies,” he said again. Then he pried the man’s jaw open and cut out his tongue.
Anselm Vry gasped and choked on his own blood. The noises he made were horrible. Even Malden flinched.
“Now,” Juring Tarness said when it was done, “someone bring me a rag. I don’t want this traitor’s blood on my hands when I lead the joyous procession of Ladymas. You, watchman—take this fool away. Lock him in my dungeon. We’ll give him a trial and see how well he speaks in his defense now. Then we’ll find some way to execute him more horrible than any we’ve tried before. Maybe we’ll force him to eat his own entrails. To swallow his own excrement, as it were.”
The captain of the watchmen did as he was told, with a bow, a salute, and no words at all. The priests cleaned the Burgrave’s hands and wiped off his dagger. While it was done, the Burgrave looked up into the dome.
“As for you, thief. Go and tell your master Cutbill that I would speak with him. Eventually. I have a long day ahead of me.”
Malden supposed that it was too much to expect thanks. He climbed back out the window in the dome and hurried away across the rooftops of the Spires.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Coruth, her own arm fully healed now, muttered to herself as she mixed herbs together in a stone mortar, then ground them together with a copper pestle. She sang a little song as she painted the resulting foul concoction across Croy’s broken ribs and the acid wounds on his arms. Whenever he tried to speak, she shushed him severely. Throughout it all, Cythera sat by his side, smiling, her face unbesmirched by sorcery. Her eyes glittered with mischief to see him almost naked in the bed, only his nethers hidden by a cloth.
If you had to lie abed for weeks and heal what should have been mortal injuries, Malden supposed you could pick few finer places to do it. Croy had been moved just across the Ladypark Common to the house of his friend, the rich merchant. There was no secrecy about the move, and had the Burgrave wished to seize Croy (for violating the terms of his banishment, if nothing else), little resistance would have been offered. Yet in the six days since Ladymas, no one showed up at the door with a writ of arrest.
It was possible that the Burgrave was only afraid this would displease Coruth. With Hazoth gone, the witch was now the most powerful user of magic in the Free City. Already old clients and new were showing up daily to ask if they might consult with her, but she refused all comers. She had much to do, she said, and once Croy was healed, there would be quite a reckoning of accounts. More than one powerful personage in the city had begun making discreet inquiries, looking to hire any magicians capable of deflecting curses.
When the witch finished her ministrations for the day, she went to the window and flew off as a flock of blackbirds again. No one knew where she went, and there was no way to follow her. Even Cythera could only shrug when asked. “Perhaps she goes to fetch medicinal herbs. Or maybe to spy on the city, and learn how it has changed in her absence. She has never kept counsel with me, even before Hazoth imprisoned her.”
“Milady,” Malden said, “you’ll forgive me if I say you have a strange family.”
Cythera smiled knowingly. “We can’t all come from noble lineages full of great heroes and comely ladies,” she said, glancing at Croy.
The knight was too busy to notice what she said. He was scrawling something on a parchment with a quill pen. “Here, Malden. Your prize. As promised.”
The thief took the paper he offered and studied it. When Croy had first come to him, looking for his help in freeing Cythera and Coruth, Malden’s first instinct had been to sweat the knight for gold. Then it occurred to him that Croy had something else in his possession, something of infinitely more use to him. The scrap of paper in his hand was what he had asked for in lieu of money. It was a grant of land, in the amount of one eighth part of an acre, in the northern part of the kingdom near the fortress of Helstrow. A very small piece of Croy’s ancestral lands. It named Malden as its new owner.
“Is it a pleasant spot?” Malden asked now.
“A rocky field, completely useless for cultivation. It overlooks a dismal bog, and in the summer it is swarmed with flies. May you find much happiness there.”
Malden laughed out loud, long and heartily. “Maybe I’ll never see it. It matters not. Croy, for this—for everything. I thank you.”
Cythera looked confused. “What would a thief want with a desolate patch of ground, not even large enough to put a house on?”
“Freedom,” Malden said. “With this parchment, I am a man of property. It makes me a landowner—with the full rights thereunto pertaining. I can go anywhere now. I can leave the city walls and not be enslaved. Here in Ness I can go to the moothall whenever I choose, and stand before the masters of all the guilds, and demand my right to speak. I could even go to Helstrow and request an audience with the king.”
“Do you want to do any of those things?”
“No!” Malden laughed. “None of them. But the power to do them—the right to do them—means I am no more a prisoner in the place where I was born. It means I’m free! I imagine you can appreciate that.”
“Oh, yes,” Cythera said, her eyes far away.
Malden kissed the paper. “My heart’s desire. One of them, anyway.”
Cythera favored him with a warning smile. Then she looked down at Croy’s scarred leg. “You should rest,” she told the knight. “Mother says if you don’t sleep twice as much as normal, the treatments will be inefficacious.”
“You are my lady, and I obey your command,” the knight said. He closed his eyes and in moments began to snore.
Malden shook his head. “Like an infant, he sleeps.”
“He believes that he has done a man’s work,” Cythera whispered. “He sleeps like the just. Come with me, Malden. I wish to speak with you.”
The two of them headed out onto the room’s balcony. It looked ou
t over the remains of Hazoth’s villa. There wasn’t much left but a pile of ashes and a few scraps of useless lumber—the people of Ness had taken away everything of value, and their definition of value was quite broad.
“Tell me,” Cythera said when they were alone, “what reward has Kemper claimed?”
“I had Slag make him a new deck of cards,” Malden said.
She frowned. “But with his curse—the only way he could even hold the old deck was because it was so immured with his own essence. He had possessed those cards so long they had become parcel with his being.”
Malden nodded. “Aye. So the new deck had to be special. They’re made out of pure silver, beaten thin and etched with vitriol for the pips. They’re probably worth more than most of the stakes he plays for, but he can hold them easily, and even slip them up his sleeves or down his tunic.”
Cythera smiled. “And Gurrh, the ogre? What price did he charge you?”
“None at all. He wished only to serve the Burgrave. If every man had the nobility of that ogre in his heart, we would all live in Croy’s world.”
Cythera leaned out over the balcony. “Then it seems we all have been repaid for our trouble, and each of us came out of this nightmare better than when we began, and all unscathed.”
“All but one,” Malden said, his brow furrowing. “I did something, Cythera, that I am not proud of. I took away a man’s freedom. It’s the greatest sin I know.”
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