Den of Thieves (21 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

M
alden needed a plan, desperately. He needed some stratagem that would see him inside Hazoth's house, where he might find the crown and escape with it to safety. He needed to do a great deal of thinking and hone his wits to a razor's edge.

First, though, he needed to get drunk.

He could tell himself that he was looking for creativity in a cup, that the best plans were based on the kind of daring folly that came to one only when the mind was befuddled and the tongue loosed.

Mostly, though, he just needed to drink until he wasn't afraid.

“Ale,” he said, and the barkeep obliged. Malden slid a wedge-shaped farthing across the bar and it disappeared. He did not have many left. He had chosen a particularly filthy tavern in one of the worst parts of the Stink, not for the ambience, but because it was cheap and his funds were small. The place had a few grimy windows made of the bottoms of old glass bottles stuck in plaster. Only a few beams of blue and green and brown light made their way inside. There was a bar made of an old door up on trestles, and behind that a stack of barrels with leaking bungs. There were a few tables but most of the patrons stood and drank from leather tankards and wiped the foam from their beards with their sleeves. A brawl had just been dying down when Malden entered, and one poor fool still lay knocked out on the floor. The serving wench stepped high over him every time she had to pass.

“More,” Malden said when he was done with his cup. The barkeep waited until he took another farthing from his purse and laid it on the bar.

The fear of death was nothing new to Malden. At their first meeting Cutbill had threatened him casually enough, and he stood up to the promise of death without quaking in his boots. That had been different, however. The threat was meant as a spur, to make him take the action Cutbill desired. It was understood by all parties that he retained an option, that he had a chance to save himself. That had just been good faith negotiation. There were countless other times over the years he'd been in mortal danger, and every time he'd kept good cheer and found the way through. Even in the Burgrave's palace, when he faced instant death from the traps and the demon, he had known there was a way through if he was clever enough to find it.

Stealing from Hazoth, though, was another matter.

Bikker would slay him the moment he walked through that gate. There was an enchantment over the entire house—he had watched the footpad lifted into the air and held there like a starling impaled on the claws of a cat. There were armed guards all over Hazoth's estate, and no diversion to draw their attention.

Worst of all, should he succeed, and find some route into the sorcerer's inner sanctum—he would then be prey to magic.

No man was wise who flaunted wizardry. Magic was unpredictable at the best of times. Students of the arcane were more liable to blow themselves up—or drawn down bodily into the pit by angry demons—than to live long enough to ply their trade. Those who did succeed in their studies, however, became
powerful
. They gained access to abilities normal men could scarce imagine. And Hazoth was one of the greatest sorcerers of history.

Malden had begun to believe all the stories he'd heard about the sorcerer. There was the tale of how Hazoth drove the elves away from southern Skrae by making every tree for a hundred miles wither and die in a single night. Old men sometimes spoke of the day Hazoth wiped out an entire barbarian army almost single-handed, how a simple wave of his hand rooted the painted berserkers to where they stood so they could do nothing but rave and curse as the knights of Skrae cut them down at leisure. The stories of what Hazoth had done to men who crossed him were too gruesome for Malden to want to remember.

The sorcerer might place some dread curse on him that would make the rest of his life a living hell. Hezoth might make his skin turn inside out. He might boil his stomach inside his body, so he died shitting out parts of himself over a course of days. Or he might simply flay the flesh from his bones with a word and a wave of his hand.

“Another,” Malden said, and slapped his money on the bar. He was starting to feel the liquor in his veins. It wasn't helping.

For distraction, he turned and studied the low-lifes in the barroom. Most of the patrons were honest enough folk—laborers in leather aprons, covered in flour or candle wax or soot from some forge. They talked loudly to each other and laughed lustily and stamped their feet when they made some jest or swore an oath. In the back of the room, near the hearth, a card game was in progress. The players looked like the kind of desperate bravos who would cut each others' throats over a mislaid wager. They were playing in earnest, though, and were almost silent as they took turns laying down their trumps. The game they were playing was unknown to Malden, so he wandered over to observe. One of the players, a mangy fellow with an unkempt beard and a smear of dirt on his forehead, looked up and growled, but the others insisted he play his hand, and he ignored Malden after that.

The game, it turned out, could not be simpler. The cards were thin pieces of paper with hand-drawn pips on one side and nothing on their backs. They were numbered from one to ten. Each player had a hand of five cards, drawn at random from the deck. He would throw coins into the center of the table based on how high his cards ran, and the others were required to match his wager or forfeit the hand. Then the player would lay down his cards to show the table what he had. If none of the others could beat it, he took all the money. Everyone who had played would draw a new card and the cycle would begin again with the betting.

One of the players had the king's share of the coins before him. Clearly the cards had been running his way. From the way the others glared at him, they must have been wondering how he got so lucky. He did not bother to look their way, instead pausing in his play only to drink from his cup. Bizarrely enough, he had a hollow reed stuck in his tankard, and when he wished to drink would place his lips around its end and suck up ale like water through a hosepipe.

“Are ye playing, lad, or gawkin'? 'Cause there's a tax for gawkin',” the lucky player said. The others guffawed, but Malden's mouth fell open. He had been paying attention to the cards and not the faces of the players, or he would have recognized the man sooner.

“Kemper?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

A ripple of anger went around the table as each player in turn stared wide-eyed at the lucky man.

“Kemper?” the gambler with the dirty face said, rising from his stool. “I've heard of a cove called Kemper. A cheat, they call him.”

“Then they lie, don't they?” Kemper told him. “Now sit back down, ye piebald cur.”

“I'll not sit at table with a card sharp!”

“Play, or leave, 'tis all the same to me.”

“You've been taking my wages all day!” the gambler shouted. “Let me see those damned cards of yours. They must be marked!”

“Sit an' play,” Kemper repeated.

Malden jumped back as the gambler grabbed up the table and hurled it aside. Coins and cards went flying as he rushed at Kemper, his belt knife suddenly in his hand. Kemper did not rise from his seat as the gambler thrust the knife again and again into his chest.

There were screams and shouts from every corner of the room, and the barkeep stormed out from his post with a hand spike, but it was already over. The gambler had gone milky white and stared at the knife in his hand. There was no blood on it. He staggered backward, and Malden saw that Kemper was unharmed, sitting with perfect composure on his stool, still holding his cards.

“Clean this up, then,” Kemper said to the gambler, “and get back t'playin', a'ready.”

The dirty-faced gambler ran gibbering from the barroom. The others eased away from Kemper as if they'd seen a demon jump up and save him from the knife. All but one of the cardsmen, anyway, who bent down to anxiously grab up coins from the floor.

“Leave 'em,” Kemper insisted. “They's mine. For me trouble, like.”

The greedy gamester nodded and hurried off.

“Ah, lad, yer timin' is not of the best. Yet I'm glad to see ye, I am,” Kemper said, and finally rose from his stool. He pushed his cards in his pocket and stepped toward Malden.

“That knife—his aim was deadly serious,” Malden said. He wondered if his face showed as much shock as he felt. “Yet there's no drop of blood on you.”

Kemper laughed. “Here, shake me hand an' see why.” He held out a callused and scarred hand, and Malden reached to take it.

It could not be done, however. Malden's hand passed right through Kemper's as though it weren't there. He felt nothing more than a cold clamminess, as if he'd tried to hold a wisp of fog. He gasped and grabbed at the man's arms and then his hair, unbelieving. He could not touch the man at all. He might as well try to grapple with his own reflection in a mirror.

“You're—a ghost,” Malden said.

“A livin' ghost,” Kemper agreed. “Which's the saddest contrary I ken.”

Chapter Forty-Four

K
emper drew too many stares after that to allow any comfort in the tavern. He gathered up his cards and his drinking reed—and of course the pile of coins scattered across the floor—and the two of them headed out into the streets, bound on a wild carouse. Perhaps just to spite those who glared, Kemper handed Malden his things and walked right through the closed door, which rose more than a few startled gasps. Malden bowed deeply to the astonished patrons and then walked right into the door himself, smacking his face on its wooden boards. Perhaps his three cups of ale had more of an effect than he thought.

Without looking back he opened the door and stepped out into the road. Kemper was waiting for him, whistling random notes that never quite added up to a song.

“It's good to see ye, son, it surely is. 'Tis always a pleasure t'have such company as one can speak plainly to, and not have t'worry 'bout keepin' secrets and bein' circumspect. I'll just have those,” Kemper said, and took his things back. The reed and the coins went into his tunic, but he kept the cards in his hand and riffled them as he walked.

“How is it you can hold those cards, when you cannot hold a tankard?” Malden asked. He had already worked out that the reed was necessary as Kemper's hand would pass unheeding through any drinking vessel he tried to pick up.

“Well, now,” Kemper said, coming to a stop and lifting his chin like an orator. “The curse on me's a strong 'un, yet a mite imperfect, if ye catch me meaning. If I concentrate hard 'nough on it somewhat, I can grip it. With long practice, I can hold just about anythin'. Like me reed, and me cards, which I've had since afore ye first soiled yer bedclothes in the night. I've mastered sittin' in a chair, and lyin' abed, an' food an' drink are available t'me. Seems the wizard what did this wanted me livin', and not allowed the peace o' death. I've not touched a woman, nor e'en changed me clothes, since the day 'twas done.”

“It's a pitiable condition,” Malden sympathized.

“Yet not without its consolations, y'know, for a gentleman of fortune like me an' yerself. It's a rare gaol that can hold me, an' I can carry coins, if they're silver. As ye see.” He flashed a coin between his fingers and twirled it for Malden.

“Only silver?”

“None as is livin' can say why, I reckon. Yet silver's a metal no magic e'er touches, y'see?”

“I'm not sure I follow,” Malden admitted.

The card sharp sighed. “Some virtue o' the metal, some property arcane, or mayhap a fault in the way magic's woven, who knows? Yet 'tis a fact. Silver'll cut through any spell, and no curse works 'gainst it. So even if I'm t'be punished for me sins, still I can clutch silver coins.”

“Ah! Hence the silver chains—in the Burgrave's dungeon,” Malden recalled. “I wondered why they would use such precious rope to tie you.”

“Aye, lad. Only silver can hold me, and most places're too poor to afford so much as a silver bootlace. Ye can imagine the advantages this offers t' a man o' my profession.”

“And when you disappeared—I thought you had run up the dungeon stairs, but instead you must have just walked out through the walls.” Malden shook his head in wonder. “Yes, I can see how that would be advantageous.”

“Yer a smart lad, I can see,” Kemper said. “ 'Tweren't easy, I don't mind tellin' ye. I had to walk through solid rock, aye, for what felt like leagues. Never really got a feelin' for that. Ye're blind as a bat the whole time, and wond'rin' whether ye'll come out sixty feet up over the Skrait.” The card sharp reeled a bit as he walked—clearly he'd been drinking himself and wasn't quite sober. “Or, or, and this'd be worse, that ye'll just keep walkin', goin' deeper and deeper into the world till ye come out again in the pit itself, with ugly old Sadu starin' up at ye with them fiery eyes of his. I always figgered if'n that happened, I give him a proper salute, like, and walk right past like unto I owned the place. Confidence, confidence is key in our game. Hold up. Hold up, lad, I'm goin' to piss.”

Malden stood at a corner and waited until the card sharp was finished. He had to admit a certain curiosity—would Kemper's water be as immaterial as his body? He thought it impolite to ask, though.

“How d'you like the look o' this place? Think they'd take kindly t'gamin' inside?”

Malden looked up and saw that they had come to the door of another tavern. Such were not infrequently found in the Stink. He knew this one by its sign, which depicted an ogre's severed head. “It's where the local priest of the Lady comes to drink,” he said, shaking his head doubtfully. “Good honest folk come here.”

“Me favorite kind,” Kemper said with a smile. “Them's as honest themselves never cease to doubt the honesty o' their fellows. And if ye know a man don't trust ye, ye know how to gull him, right enough.” He gestured for Malden to open the door for him.

There was much ale that followed, with Kemper graciously picking up the bill from his winnings. The night devolved from a continuous narrative into a series of isolated incidents, separated by muddy stretches Malden would not remember clearly in the morning. There was a lot of singing, he knew, and he was encouraged to add his own voice, which was untutored. There was a great deal of gambling, at which Kemper proved more than lucky.

Sometime during the night he confided in Malden his great secret for winning. “Now y'see these cards, they're not marked at all, perish the thought,” he whispered as they crossed the river Skrait by the Turnhill Bridge. “ 'Tis as I said—if a man doesn't trust ye, ye can take advantage. They expect me to cheat, y'see. They expect marked cards. I've seen marked cards afore, so cleverly done you'd think 'twould take a dwarf to find the spots. Yet always, always some clever fella's goin' to find 'em, for he's lookin' for 'em. 'Tis only a matter o' time afore he sees how it's done. An' then the jig is up, ain't it! Nay, me secret's simpler. Y'see how grimy they got, with greasy fingers holdin' 'em these many years, and general wear. I don't need 'em marked by now! Ha, lad, smell this.”

Malden recoiled as the cursed card sharp shoved the ten of bells toward his face. He did have to admit it had a certain aroma of unwashed clothing.

“It's fouled,” Malden said.

“Hardly! Smells like me armpit, aye, don't it? An' when any man holds that card, why, I can smell it 'cross the table. An' each of 'em's got their own partick-uler odor, don't it? Why, with me discriminatin' nostrils I can tell ye've got a high card, or a low. From long use and practice I know these cards a fair sight better than the back o' my hands, in troth.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Malden laughed, for by that point he'd reached the point where everything seemed admirable, the world was a lovely place, and death was never farther away.

The night provided all manner of diversions. At one point they were chased by the watch, but escaped easily—Malden by ducking into a shadowy alley that was mostly used as a privy, Kemper by simply walking through a wall.

They were ejected, sometimes by force, from any number of drinking establishments. On one such occasion it was because Kemper had grabbed at the buttocks of a passing serving wench. His hand went right through her skirt, of course, but she felt
something
. Her face had gone quite white and she dropped her tray and then whirled around in bitter anger to confront her molester—only to find Malden sitting alone on a bench, looking innocent. It was all he could do to stumble his way out of that place—only to find Kemper in the street outside, laughing boisterously. At the first sign of trouble, the card sharp had merely ducked backward through the wall and to safety, leaving Malden to bear the barmaid's wrath.

When he realized what Kemper had done, he could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Then he was sick, over the side of a bridge. Afterward he felt weak and queasy, and Kemper assured him the best cure for what ailed him was more ale. Malden enthusiastically agreed.

The carouse ended only slightly before dawn—but on a sour note. They had wended their way down to the city walls without really meaning to, and Malden came up short when he saw the green common of Parkwall ahead of him. He was right back on Hazoth's doorstep.

“Kemper,” Malden said. “Kemper.”

“What?”

“The wizard who cursed you, who made you like unto—unto . . . The sorcerer who cursed you, was his name Hazoth?”

Kemper laughed until he wheezed. “Hazoth? Ye think 'twas him, the grandmaster of sorcerers, the auld bastard? Sadu's eight index fingers, save me skin from such a fate! Oh, laddie, nay. Nay, it was but some hedge wizard, in a blighted village a hunnerd miles from here.”

“But this hedge—hedge wizard—must have been, you know. Very powerful. To do this to you.”

Kemper shook his head violently. “Nay, in comparison, the bugger who got me—that is, compared to yer Hazoth—he was like hawkin' a gob o' spit next t'the ocean.” He sat down hard on the grass. “Magic's strong stuff, it is. E'en a mild curse's no joke. Yet what Hazoth could do t' a body, I shudder t'think. Strip the flesh right off o' your bones and make it dance a jig, maybe. Or just crack th'earth open, right at yer feet, and drop ye into the pit like a pebble in a well.”

“Oh,” Malden said, and threw up again. Partly from strong drink. Mostly from fear.

“Izzat
his
place, then?” Kemper asked.

“This is the place,” Malden said, pointing across the grass toward the sorcerer's villa. “The crown must be inside.” Over the course of the night he'd told Kemper everything—including the fact that he had no choice but to break in there and steal the crown back. “It's not like he'll just give it to me,” he said.

Kemper shuffled his cards with one hand, no mean feat considering how drunk he was. He seemed to think of something then. “Have ye asked?”

Malden blinked and tried to clear his head. He wasn't sure if what Kemper had just said was a stroke of genius or utter folly.

“Bikker would kill me the moment he saw me,” he said finally, shaking his head.

“Then ye wait till Bikker's na' a' home,” Kemper said. Then he started hiccupping and had to sit down for a while.

“It's too—too dangerous,” Malden insisted. “No. I need to break in. But how? There's an invisible wall of magic around the place, not to mention guards and dogs, and—and Bikker, and Cyth—Cythera. I need to sit down, too.”

He fell backward onto his fundament on the grass. He was not feeling at all well. He tried to lean on Kemper's shoulder and fell right through him, which made them both laugh so hard they couldn't breathe.