Den of Thieves (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

K
nightly interruptions notwithstanding, Malden's preparations were finished long before midnight. He scouted out Godstone Square—a modest plaza deep in the Stink, where the residents were unlikely to open their windows at night—and found the proper spot to lie in wait, then gathered together the tools he needed. This largely amounted to stealing some poor citizen's clothesline and digging an old but still sound basket out of a rubbish pile in an alley. Not the most sophisticated tools, but the simplicity of Malden's plan was its strength.

The Stink at that hour of night was all but deserted. Up on the Golden Slope, across the river in the Royal Ditch, the rich would be up and about, taking their night's entertainment in gambling houses or playing cards or listening to chamber music in their well-lighted apartments. They would be out in the streets in the murk of night, led along the wide avenues by the linkboys who ran through the streets carrying pitch torches. Down here, though, the poor could afford little light after the sun set. Candles were expensive, oil lamps doubly so. The people of the Stink kept out of their dark streets, sleeping early behind thick shutters and locked doors. Only thieves prospered after dark here. Thieves like Malden.

He took his place, then settled in to wait. His body drooped with the need for sleep and his belly was far from full but he'd learned a long time ago how to ignore his muscles and wait in silence for long periods of time.

It was no more than two hours later when Bikker and Cythera approached the square. They came silently, without lights, and walked directly up to the Godstone itself in the middle of the crossroads.

A monolith about fifteen feet tall, inscribed with dread runes that time had weathered to illegibility, it had been a center for the worship of the Bloodgod centuries ago. The first Burgrave had ritually defiled it, however, and the people stopped coming. Too big and too heavy to be carted away, it waited out the years and the rain in mute witness. Even the bloodstains that once washed its lower half had faded away to nothing, and now it served only as a landmark, an unloved boil on the face of an unloved district. Neither Cythera nor Bikker even looked at it as they approached. Their eyes studied the shadows, the corners, the recessed doorways of the houses around them.

They did not think to look up. Malden stirred himself carefully—his limbs were stiff with immobility—and cleared his throat.

His two employers did not flinch. As one they turned their faces upward and looked upon him where he crouched atop the stone. Bikker looked annoyed. Cythera looked merely like she wished to be somewhere else.

He could sympathize. “Did you bring the gold?” he asked.

Bikker's face softened. “You could at least have picked a less public meeting place.”

“Certainly. A dark alley, perhaps? Or maybe we could have met at the top of a cliff above the Skrait, so you could just push me in.”

“You don't trust us?” Cythera asked. There was no hurt in her tone.

“I don't trust
him
. He killed two just to draw attention.” Malden rose to his feet and paced back and forth atop the stone. It was just barely two strides across. “As for you—I can imagine why you took your little boat away. I don't think any of us expected things to turn out this way.”

“If you mean we didn't expect you to bungle the job,” Bikker growled, “you're right, there.”

Malden laughed—though not loudly. “We all survived. I have the thing you want. As long as you have my gold, I think we did just fine.”

Cythera reached beneath her cloak and drew forth a bulging sack. It looked heavy in her slim hands, but she showed no sign of effort as she lifted it. “All the same, you'd do well to lie low after this. We drew more scrutiny than we would have liked. And they'll be looking for the object.”

“Bah,” Bikker said. “They probably think it's buried in the rubble. Come down here, boy, and give it to me. Then we'll leave your gold. Then we'll never see each other again, if you know what's good for you.”

“I have a better notion.” Malden kicked the basket over the side of the stone so it dropped to the cobbles at their feet. The clothesline tied to its handle had its other end in his hand. “Put the gold in there and I'll raise it up.
Then
I'll throw you your prize.”

“Out of reach of my sword, up there,” Bikker said. His face showed a kind of grudging admiration. “Of course, you can't stay up there forever. Eventually you'll have to come down, and I can wait a long time.”

Malden favored him with a grim smile. If it came to that, he knew he could leap to the wall of the nearest house and be over its roof before the swordsman could climb the Godstone. He didn't say as much.

“Enough,” Cythera said, and placed her sack in the basket. Malden hauled it up quickly, before Bikker could grab at it. It was as heavy as he expected—there must be ten pounds of gold in the sack. His heart lurched at the prospect. Opening the sack, he was relieved to see it was not full of stones or bars of lead. Quickly, he counted the money. One and a hundred golden royals! The exact amount he needed. He tied the sack to his back underneath his cloak.

“Many thanks,” Malden said. “As for your prize—it's at the bottom of a horse trough two streets to the west. I would have brought it with me, but I couldn't bear its incessant babbling.”

“You—You blasted fool,” Bikker frothed. “What if some vagrant stumbled upon it and hawked it already to a pawner?”

Malden shifted his shoulders so the gold at his back clinked. “Not my problem anymore.”

Bikker cursed and dashed out of the square, shouting for Cythera to stay and watch Malden. When he was gone, Malden slipped easily down the side of the Godstone, using the carved runes as handholds, and bowed deeply before her.

“It's not wise to anger him,” she said with a sigh.

“I don't intend to meet him again.” Malden turned on his heel to dash away. Something stopped him. He should have known better, especially after meeting Croy, but he couldn't help himself. What if there was a chance? “You, on the other hand—”

“Me? You'd wish to see me again?” she asked.

“I think I made that clear, when last we spoke. If you're amenable.”

A strange look crossed her eyes. Her face was too opaque with tattoos for him to read it. “Then perhaps,” she said, “I have something you might like to hear. There's another reward. From my master.”

“Hazoth?” Malden said, confused. “I want nothing else from him.”

“Then take it from me,” she said, her voice soft and low. She stepped toward him and smiled. “A kiss. Just one. Don't you find me desirable?”

Malden laughed, but more from uncertainty than the humor of it. “More than any woman I've known in a long time.”

“Perhaps I find you handsome. Perhaps I merely want to show my proper thanks.”

Malden's heart raced. The offer certainly held its attractions. Yet it seemed strange she should offer it as coming from Hazoth. What had she meant?

She was very beautiful. Especially by moonlight. White flowers were blooming in the ink just below her left eye. Exotic, and all the more comely for it.

She moved closer, close enough to embrace him.

Malden took a step back. Something was happening here, something he didn't understand. There was one thing he definitely needed to know. “Oh, milady, you've tempted me sore. But I'm not sure my new friend Sir Croy would approve,” he said.

“Croy,” she said, like a woman waking from troubled dreams. She blinked rapidly and straightened her posture. It was all Malden needed to hear. The offer of a kiss had not been given in good faith. Hazoth must have charmed her into making it—or maybe Sir Croy was testing him for some reason. “Did you say—”

Before she could finish her question, though, Malden was gone. He was really getting quite good at slipping away in the dark.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A
n hour later Malden was fast, and finally, asleep.

He did not go home to his room above the waxchandler's, of course. That was for fear that he'd find Bikker waiting there, his nasty sword dripping acid on the floorboards. Instead he took to sleeping rough, under the Cornmarket Bridge, just below Market Square. It was an odd and exposed place to doss. The bridge passed not over a river, but over the very houses of the Golden Slope. It had been built to allow goods to be brought from the Smoke straight to Market Square, without disturbing the wealthy citizens in their mansions. Its span was like a ribbon of stone floating over the rooftops, and where Malden perched he had a good view of a hundred chimney pots directly below, each of them trailing a thin stream of smoke. It was like lying on a cloud. It was a strangely exposed location, but its oddity made it ideal—no one would think to look for him there. In his rumpled, dusty cloak he looked the very picture of the broken men who frequented the place. None challenged him as he found a spot between two stone plinths and curled up, his cowl pulled tight around his face for warmth.

Only once, during the night, was he disturbed. In his sleep he felt rude fingers test the fabric of his cloak. His eyes snapped open and he was instantly awake. Should someone steal the gold now, it would be a foul jest, would it not?

His hand was already loosely closed on the hilt of his bodkin. He rolled slightly onto his side and drew it from its sheath as the hand grew more bold and insinuated itself into his clothing. Then he spun about on his hip and brought the knife up where it could be seen.

“Och, m'lud,” the beggar who'd been trying to roll him pleaded, filthy hands up and fingers spread wide, “there ain't nothin' needful in that.”

“Glad to hear it,” Malden said. “Find elsewhere to bed down, or someone less wary to plunder.”

The beggar nodded heartily and scurried away. Malden went back to sleep.

When he woke, before he opened his eyes, he reached around behind him and touched the sack of gold at his back. Still there.

He let himself smile broadly and luxuriate in the feeling. A fortune, and though it would be gone shortly, by spending it he would earn the right to replace it.

Today, he thought, will be the best of my life.

Then he opened his eyes. In the morning light the space under the bridge lost much of its charm. It was strewn with refuse and furry with gray, stunted weeds that never got enough sun. The penniless men who lived there lingered long in their slumber, brains still addled by the night's freight of cheap drink. All but one, who had a fire going—it looked like it was made of old table legs—and a pot made from a pikeman's rusty helmet. Whatever stew he was cooking up to break his fast smelled evil and looked worse, so when he offered to share it, Malden politely declined.

Exiting his erstwhile lair, he crawled out on one of the supports of the bridge and then clambered up and over its rail. A drover with a load of dressed stone bound for the palace gazed at him askance, but Malden had never yet been hurt by a nasty look. He fell in with the crowd of people heading down into the Golden Slope—servants and tradesmen and carters of sweetmeats and fuel, honest men up early to get to their work and earn another day's wage.

Malden did not sneer at them, for he pitied them some. They would slave and toil for decades until their backs gave out and their beards grew long, and it would profit them little. They would die as they had lived, beholden to masters who cared not a jot for their welfare. Whereas he himself, who had been spurned by their society as not good enough—well, he had only to drop off his earned fortune, to pour it out dramatically across Cutbill's desk—and then, and then!

And then he would be a full member of the guild. He would be a thief in good standing, with protection from arrest and a dwarf to make his tools for him. He would be, in certain circles, a gentleman of stature. He could begin to make money, real money, for himself. He would buy a fine new cloak, he thought, and rent better rooms. He would drink good wine from now on, instead of weak ale, and eat meat at least one meal a day. His standard of living—and concomitantly, his life expectancy—would improve by great measure, and all manner of things would improve.

And best of all—most important of all—he would be truly free. A man with money could not be made a slave. He could travel where he liked and count himself safe. He could escape the tawdry past and make his own fortune. His own future.

What a fine and clever fellow am I.
What a wise and cunning scoundrel. My mother would be proud indeed.

Such feelings put a bounce in his step and he made good time as he wended his way downhill, through the Smoke and the Stink, down to the Ashes. In the charred embers down by Westwall he even began to whistle a jaunty tune.

He saw no sign of the urchin army that guarded Cutbill's hiding hole. All to the good—they must recognize him now, he considered, and kept back out of respect. As well they should! Journeyman thief! Man of station!

He came around the corner of the ruined inn and merrily hailed the three old veteran thieves where they sat on their coffin . . . except they weren't there.

Odd.

Lockjaw, 'Levenfingers, and Loophole never budged from that spot, in his experience. Still, he supposed they must sleep sometime. And it was, by the standards of the larcenous crew, still very early. The sun wasn't even over Castle Hill as yet. Malden shrugged and found the trapdoor that led down into Cutbill's headquarters.

“Bellard? Anyone? It's Malden, and I'm coming down,” he said in a forced whisper. He knew from previous visits the strange acoustics of the stairwell leading down, which widened as it descended and thus amplified all sounds that issued from its top. Malden thought it wise to announce his entry into that place, if the old trio could not do it for him.

Yet at the bottom no one waited for him, nor was he challenged by any sentry. The common room was, in fact, empty. Slag had deserted his workbench. No whores were sleeping it off on the divan, and for the very first time no gamblers were throwing dice upon the wall.

It took a moment for Malden to notice what else was different. First off he saw this: the divan was shoved out of its place, its legs having scuffed the stone floor. A booted foot stuck out from behind it. As Malden approached, with dread in his heart, he saw that it was Bellard back there. And Bellard was not down for drink, or white snuff, or even just a late night.

Blood frothed on the bravo's lips. His eyes stared at nothing at all.

“Bellard,” Malden said, bending over the body. “Bellard, who did this?” He saw that Bellard was clutching at his stomach, and lifted the dead man's hand away. The wound beneath was a deep gouge that pierced his vitals. Clotted blood lay thick around the injury. It looked like someone had taken an axe to Bellard's middle.

Malden heard something—a door being drawn back, perhaps. A foot scraping on stone. He whirled about and saw, secondly, this: the ancient and historied lock that had always warded Cutbill's door was broken in pieces and lay scattered on the floor. And Cutbill's impregnable door stood slightly ajar.

Malden tried to run. He did not get far. The door slammed open and men with halberds wearing cloaks-of-eyes came boiling out. “Seize him,” someone said, “whoever he is.” And then a dozen hands were on him and they dragged him inside, into what had been Cutbill's private sanctum.