This man was something far more sinister. Something strange. You paid extra for that in Ness.
But who could have sent him? Malden wracked his brains trying to think, because knowing who it was could make all the difference. It would at least let him know why he had been singled out. It had to be a rich man. The list of truly wealthy men who would want his life was a short one, but it started with the Burgrave, the ultimate ruler and lord of the Free City of Ness. Malden knew a secret the Burgrave would prefer to be kept.
In a fairer world, of course, the Burgrave would have owed Malden a favor. He had recovered the lord’s crown when it was in the possession of Hazoth, and returned it to its proper head. In the process he’d saved the city from a usurper and ensured the continuation of the Burgrave’s reign. In the process, though, Malden had learned things better kept secret, and that was always the best way to get oneself killed. In the end it had been Cutbill who saved Malden from a quick death. The Burgrave did, in fact, owe Cutbill a favor-quite a large one-and Cutbill had used it up for Malden’s benefit. The Burgrave had promised Cutbill that he wouldn’t slaughter Malden. Of course, that only meant the Burgrave’s own guards and watchmen would not do the deed. If it could be done discreetly-and Prestwicke looked the discreet type-then perhaps the Burgrave was willing to break his promise.
It would not surprise Malden in the least.
Prestwicke reached up into one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He unrolled it on the ground and Malden saw half a dozen knives of various sizes and shapes inside. “I was paid a certain fee to take your life. It is customary that the client pays a small additional sum to ensure that it is done quickly, with a minimum of pain.”
“Thass… nice,” Malden said.
“I regret to say, in this case my client declined to pay the surcharge.” Prestwicke smiled broadly.
Malden’s head was packed too tight with wool to allow much fear to stir his brains, but he felt his breath come faster and his heart start to race. He could barely move, certainly could not stand up just then. He still had the bodkin at his belt, but his arm felt dead as a piece of wood. Even if he could manage to draw the weapon, he had little doubt Prestwicke could kill him before he could strike.
Think, he told himself. But he could not-his head hurt too much.
Talk your way out of this. But he could barely speak.
Was this how he was going to die?
Malden lived with constant danger. The penalty of thievery in Ness was hanging, whether one stole gems and jewels or a crust of bread. Every day he risked his neck. Yet he had never been more afraid than at that moment, never more certain that his jig was up.
There seemed nothing he could do, no way to save himself. But then a miracle happened and gave him a distraction.
Behind Prestwicke the pigs screamed. The assassin looked up and away from Malden, just for a moment. It gave Malden a chance to glance down at the knives, laid out in careful order on their cloth. They were so close to his right foot, dim slivers of light in the dark.
He jerked out with his leg and kicked them away from him, sending them clattering down the alleyway.
Prestwicke growled in anger and punched Malden hard in the gut. Malden nearly vomited-the killer was far stronger than he looked.
“You dunce! Now I’ll have to go collect them. And they’ll be dirty!”
“Sssorry,” Malden managed to say, when he stopped wheezing.
“And these beasts, why won’t they be quiet? Don’t they understand a man is working here?” Prestwicke demanded. “The watch will be on us at any moment, and they’ll spoil everything. I’m of a mind to just strangle you now.” The assassin stared out at the street, and Malden saw beads of sweat had broken out on his chin. “But no. We’ll do this right. Next time I’ll do it right.”
The assassin stooped to grab Malden under the armpits. He hauled the thief upright onto his shoulders and carried him down the alley.
“Where?” Malden asked, deeply confused. Where are you taking me? he wanted to ask.
“I can’t let the watch find you, not now,” Prestwicke told him. “They would lock you away, and probably hang you. And I don’t share.”
Malden was too weak to resist as the assassin carried him far across the Smoke, well clear of the searching watchmen. Prestwicke seemed to have a real gift for evading pursuit-he ran mostly through dark alleys, but occasionally he had to cross a broad avenue, where even at this hour there were people abroad. Yet Malden would swear not a single eye fell on him and his captor as they hurried through the night. Whatever kind of man this Prestwicke was, he was even more gifted at clandestine work than he himself.
Eventually they came to an alley on the edge of the Stink, a dark way between two massive blocks of wattle-and-daub houses. Prestwicke dropped Malden on a pile of old rubbish-broken furniture and sticks of unidentifiable wood kept there to feed the hearth fires of the houses all around.
“I’ll be back for you tomorrow night, when the proper hour comes again,” Prestwicke said, staring down at him. In Malden’s dazed state the assassin seemed to be looming over him from a great height.
“Where… should we meet? I’d hate to miss such a- Oof.” Malden’s head felt as if it were full of rocks grinding together. “Such an important engagement.”
Prestwicke sneered at him. “Run where you like. I’ll find you wherever you go to ground. There’s nowhere in Ness you can hide from me.”
“That’s awfully… convenient,” Malden said. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Since I-”
But Prestwicke had already gone. Malden didn’t see his would-be killer leave, but one moment Prestwicke was there and the next Malden was alone in the alley, save for the rats that nested in the woodpile.
Chapter Fifteen
A drizzling rain rolled down Croy’s best loden cloak the next morning as he finished loading the wagon. He tied down a leather cover over the various supplies inside: barrels of smoked fish, rolled-up tents and camp gear, jugs of beer and a pail of milk for Morget. Big coils of rope and mining gear-blocks and tackles, hooks and spikes, hammers and other tools-rounded out the load. The horses snorted in their traces, unhappy about being out in the wet, but they were good well-bred hackneys and would settle down once they were under way. The riding horses, a palfrey and a rounsey, were still under shelter in the stable behind him.
It felt good to Croy to get moving. It felt good to begin.
For far too long he had been a true knight errant-a warrior without a master, or any well-defined purpose. He’d been sworn to fight demons, but there were so few of them left now. He’d been sworn to defend the king, and then the Burgrave of Ness, but both of them had severed him from their service. A man like himself needed a reason to keep going, to stay strong.
Well, the Lady had provided that.
He knew nothing of this demon, not its capabilities or how great a danger it was to the world. Yet he was certain that it had to be destroyed, and that he was the man for the job. He, and Morget, of course.
The barbarian came down from the door of the inn stretching and stamping, looking well-rested and ready to get under way. “Starting in the rain’s a good omen,” he said, looking up into the clouds. He opened his mouth wide to catch the raindrops, then swished them about his teeth and spat into the mud. “Means it’ll be dry when we arrive.”
Croy laughed. All deep thoughts about duty and purpose fled his mind with the excitement of the journey’s commencement. “I hope you’re right. It does mean we’ll have to make a short day of it, and find some shelter before dark. It’s getting cold early this year.”
The barbarian went back inside to get a bundle that he dumped on the tailgate of the wagon. It clanked loudly as he shoved it in with the rest of the gear.
“Sounds like you’ve got half an arsenal in there,” Croy said.
“All that I need,” Morget told him, with a shrug. “A man with a proper axe can survive in the
wild longer than a man with a hundredweight of food and no axe.”
Croy laughed. He was glad to have the barbarian along. Morget was right, too-the food in the wagon would only last just so long, and he imagined they would have to hunt before they reached their destination, if they didn’t want to starve.
Once everything was loaded they were ready to depart, and waited only on the two other members of their expedition. Slag the dwarf arrived first. Croy had been quite surprised when Slag had found him the night before and demanded to be included. Croy knew Slag only a little, through his connection to Malden, but from what he’d heard, the dwarf was an unlikely traveling companion. For one thing, all dwarves were known for their hatred of travel, even those who worked as ambassadors for their king and had to move from place to place all the time. And Slag was a city dwarf, accustomed to the refinements of Ness. By Malden’s account he’d been a fixture in the city for many years.
Slag had given little explanation for why he wanted to leave just now, or why he would want to go to the Vincularium, but Croy supposed little was needed. Dwarves had built the place, after all, though so long ago none alive could remember it, surely. Morget had been enthusiastic about allowing Slag to come along, saying that the dwarf would be useful in overcoming the Vincularium’s many traps and blind passages. An important addition to their crew since the thief had refused to accompany them. Croy had offered no real objection. After all, Slag was a friend of Malden. That was enough to vouch for the diminutive man right there.
“Well met, friend,” he said, and bowed to clap hands with the dwarf. “We ride today toward true adventure!”
“Picked a lousy fucking day for it,” the dwarf replied. Without another word he climbed up under the leather cover on the wagon and curled around a barrel. In a few moments he was snoring.
Morget and Croy exchanged a smile and went to get the horses. By the time they had them out of the stable, Cythera had arrived as well. Croy gave her a knowing look as she placed her own gear on the wagon. She was dressed in an old cloak with the hood up over her hair. It hid her eyes as well.
“Shall we get started?” she asked when Croy opened his mouth.
He had been about to give her a chance to change her mind, and remain in the city until he returned. Clearly she still intended to go.
“Very well,” he said. “You take the palfrey. He’s gelded, and a good ambler. Morget can have the rounsey for now. That’s a man’s horse.”
Cythera turned to face him, and he saw she was glaring at him under her hood.
“I meant simply that the rounsey will better bear his weight, that’s all,” Croy said, desperate to mollify her. “I’ll drive the wagon for this first day.”
Cythera said nothing more, but climbed onto the palfrey and kicked its flanks to get it moving. Croy had to hurry to jump up on the wagon and get the hackneys moving, just to keep up with her. She led them downhill, through the Stink toward King’s Gate, which opened on the road toward Helstrow. They passed by a fish market on their way there, where poor women braved the rain to get the freshest catch, and then past a small churchyard. Croy frowned-that was a bad omen, riding past graves on the way to danger-but he did not call for a change of course.
Soon he saw the wall rise up before them, sheer and white and looming over the buildings that crowded around its feet. The rain had flooded some of the side streets, but the main way stayed clear. Croy leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and started lulling himself into the old familiar trance of the road. The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves and the grinding of the wagon’s wheels on the cobbles made a song of journeying. In a few minutes they would pass the gate and be on their way. The way would be long, and there would be obstacles to overcome, but he was on a quest again, a mission. How he had longed for Something heavy dropped onto the leather cover of the wagon behind him. Slag shouted out a curse as if he’d been struck. Croy pulled on the reins, and the hackneys whinnied as he slowed them. Turning around, one hand already on Ghostcutter’s hilt, he stared with wide eyes.
“Room for one more?” Malden asked. He lay sprawled across the wagon’s cover, as if he’d fallen there out of the thin air. For some reason his face was badly bruised and one of his eyelids was nearly swollen shut. “I have a sudden urge to get some country air,” the thief offered, by way of explanation.
Part II
On the Lam
Interlude
Snurrin the dwarf armorer closed up his shop an hour early that day, sending his human employees home with a halfhearted excuse-he’d had too much sun, he told them, and needed to rest somewhere cool and dark or he’d be worthless for the next morning’s appointments. The humans didn’t seem to care why they were released early from their labors. As was typical of the gangly bastards, they were just glad for a chance to spend the evening in a tavern drinking away their wages.
“Fucking layabouts,” Snurrin muttered once they were gone. It felt good to be able to swear like a proper dwarf, something he never did when humans were around. Humans, he thought, were so very tall and brutish, and so very good at killing one another, but they acted like strong language was more dangerous than any weapon in his shop. Utter one good profanity and half of them just fainted dead away.
He locked up the day’s take in his strongbox, then cleaned up the workshop where he’d spent most of the day fletching crossbow bolts. When he was done he headed up to the top floor of his shop where he kept his living quarters. Heavy velvet drapes covered all the windows there, blocking out the fierce sunlight. They were tacked in place, but still a few errant beams of light broke into his room. More than enough to see by. Snurrin went to his desk and took out a long thin strip of paper. Using a heavy stylus of white lead, he wrote out a message in dwarven runes. When he was done the paper still looked blank, but if it were held over the proper sort of oil lamp for a few moments the runes would be revealed, as the particles of smoke adhered to the paper but not to the lead. What he had written was not for every eye to see.
Snurrin was no stranger to spycraft. Every dwarf living in Skrae-or at least every one loyal to the dwarven king-was expected to keep an eye on what the humans did, and report as necessary. The treaty between the crown of Skrae and the kingdom of dwarves was ironclad and made their two nations fast allies. That didn’t mean they trusted each other for a moment.
When the message was ready, Snurrin headed up to the roof where he kept a wooden box sealed with a good stout padlock. Inside were a dozen bats each as big as his forearm, still asleep with their wings folded over them like cloaks. He picked one with three black dots painted on its back and rolled his message around its leg. The bat kicked and squealed in its sleep but was unable to shake the slip of paper loose. When Snurrin was sure it was done properly, he locked the box again and went back downstairs to take his supper. His work was done.
The city of Redweir lay over a hundred miles away, far to the southeast on the Bay of Serpents. It would take a human rider three days to cover that distance, even if he rode through the night and assuming he had fresh horses waiting for him at every stop on the way. A fast ship sailing with a fair wind might make it there in half the time. But even if the entire Free City of Ness had been swallowed up by a crack in the earth and dragged down to the pit of souls, no human in Redweir would hear of it and quicker than that.
The dwarves had a far more convenient method of getting messages back and forth between the two cities. That night when darkness fell, the bat would clamber out of a thin slot in the side of the box and wing toward Redweir. It knew the only way to get the objectionable piece of paper off its leg was to present itself to a certain dwarf who lived there. It would fly at full speed and arrive by dawn, when a minor clerk in the dwarven embassy at Redweir would find it just as he was headed for bed. The clerk would take the message-unread-directly to the Envoy of that city, who would know exactly how to make it legible. The Envoy would also know exactly what to do with the information Snurrin had provided:
/> BARBARIAN LEAVING TODAY FOR VINC MUST NOT FIND WHAT IS HIDDEN THERE THE KING GIVES THIS UTMOST PRIORITY HUMAN CASUALTIES ARE ACCEPTABLE SEND BALINT
Chapter Sixteen
The band of adventurers passed through King’s Gate without any trouble-none of the guards were interested in stopping such a dangerous-looking crew from leaving the city-and before Malden knew it he was out in the world.
His reaction was immediate, and visceral.
Never, in his entire life, had he set so much as a foot outside the walls of the Free City of Ness. He was for the first time seeing that there even was a world beyond.
And it terrified him.
The land rolled like the waves of a vast ocean, a sea of tawny grain that never stopped moving under the lowering gray sky. In the distance the clouds broke and sunlight streamed down in impossibly long, straight rays to flicker on golden fields. A small army of peasants worked out there, bent over with sickles to harvest the glowing treasure. To the northeast a church stood white and straight, its spire pointing upward like an accusing finger. It looked terribly alone in that open space, its right angles and distinct shape like some piece of his life cut loose and cast down carelessly like a plaything by some cyclopean child.
Every hour of Malden’s life to that point had been spent in narrow lanes, or climbing over rooftops, or in well-mannered parkland hampered by walls. Now there was nothing on any side of him that he could reach out and touch. If I were plucked up into the sky by some violent wind, he thought, and tossed out into the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, this is how it would feel. He felt exposed, naked, vulnerable in a way he distinctly disliked.
Over time this unease ebbed, though it never left him.
For hours they ambled through the fields under the blustery rain, never seeing more than the occasional distant group of laborers. The only way to measure the distance they covered was to count the mile markers that stood by the side of the road, simple piles of stones marked with the sigil of the local nobility: a crudely drawn stork or a pair of chevrons or just a simple crown. To Malden the symbols meant only one thing, really: all this land belonged to someone else. He was trespassing on someone else’s property, and if they wanted to, they could run him off.
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