Den of Thieves (22 page)

Chapter Forty-Five

I
t was not difficult to get into the Burgrave's palace, if you did so in the middle of the day and you appeared to have business there. The denizens of the palace consumed vast quantities of food, drink, firewood, and other commodities every day. Carts came in and out through the massive iron gates in the wall of Castle Hill almost constantly. Laborers carrying sacks of flour, rashers of bacon, or hogsheads of lamp oil passed into the palace proper through an entrance in the back, nearest to the kitchens. On this day they had to line up and each wait their turn, as the courtyard was full already with workmen, masons, architects, and stone-breakers overseeing the careful demolition of what remained of the tower. It was a great chaos of people dressed in every imaginable hue and style.

When Croy entered, walking alongside a cart full of grain, he was still stopped by a guard at the gate, but not because he'd been recognized. The harried guard did no more than to assure himself that Croy carried no weapons before sending him through. Though Croy was wanted for escaping the gallows, the guard didn't even glance at his face.

“You're growing complacent, Anselm,” Croy chuckled as he headed across the courtyard toward the palace. There were no archers up on the castle walls, and what few watchmen he saw were arguing with the masons atop the ruins of the tower. The masons had set up a huge triangular crane that could lift away the chunks of broken stone, but the watchmen seemed to think they would damage the palace in the process. The masons argued they knew what they were doing and should be left to their work. Meanwhile their laborers stood around idle, leaning on picks and shovels or sharing a jug of wine. A group of apprentices, boys no older than ten, had started kicking a ball around the courtyard while they waited for the argument to finish so they could start work again. Croy took advantage of the chaos, slipped in through the back of the palace and walked right past the castellan. The old dotard was too busy counting bushel baskets full of candles to pay any mind.

Beyond the storerooms lay the servants' quarters, narrow little rooms smaller than the cell Croy had been given at the gaol. Because it was the middle of the day, these chambers were all deserted—the servants were at their work, of course. Croy climbed a spiral staircase at the end of the hall and came out on the second floor, near the Burgrave's chambers. Vry's office was nearby, in case the Burgrave should demand his presence on a moment's notice.

There was a guard at the top of the stairs. Croy was glad in a way to see that—he didn't like to think of such important people being so vulnerable. The guard was dressed in leather jack with iron plates on his shoulders and down his forearms, and he wore a wide-brimmed kettle helmet. Because it was a warm day—Ladymas always brought sunny weather—the guard had removed the padded hood he should have worn under such a helmet. He lowered his halberd across the exit from the stairs and bade Croy to hold. “What's your business?” he asked.

“I have a message for the bailiff,” Croy said, trying to sound frightened. A real messenger would be staring at the blade of the halberd, he thought, so he turned his head as if he were looking at it. His eyes, though, never left sight of the guard's hands.

“Give it here, and I'll see he gets it.”

“Oh, you want it?” Croy asked. “Very well.” He brought out the sap he'd been hiding under his cloak and smacked the guard across the temple. The kettle helmet rang like a bell and the guard grimaced as his eyes fluttered closed. Croy barely managed to catch him before he collapsed to the floor.

Then Croy stopped perfectly still, crouched on the top riser of the stairs with the guard in his arms, and listened. The ringing helmet had made far more noise than he'd liked, and he needed to know if anyone had heard him.

He could hear the workmen outside grumbling about having to wait to offload their wares. He could hear horse hooves clopping on the flagstones of the courtyard. He could hear a guard atop the wall, hailing his fellow across the way, checking that all was well. He did not hear what he'd feared: no cry of alarm, no voice raised inside the palace to ask what that sound was. No one calling for the unconscious guard, to ask if something was the matter.

Very good. Getting the guard back down the stairs was not easy, but Croy had good muscle in his arms and a strong back. He shoved the guard into a verger's room, then stripped him of his armor and tied his hands together behind his back. With a gag in the guard's mouth, he thought he would be safe awhile. He threw his own cloak over the supine form of the guard for modesty's sake, then pulled on the leather jack and put the helmet on his own head. He found the padded hood on the man's belt and drew that on as well. It hid both his blond hair and his square chin.

Then he headed back to the second floor and straight to the door of Anselm Vry's office. He raised the knuckles of one hand to knock, intending to announce that there was a message from the moothall and a reply was expected. That would get Vry to open the door with no fuss.

Yet just before he knocked he stopped and listened a moment—and heard a conversation beyond the door that grasped his attention.

“You must put it on. People expect to see you wearing the robe.” That was the voice of Anselm Vry, certainly.

Croy didn't recognize the other voice. It was that of a grown man, but there was a childlike petulance to it—and at the same time a sort of hollowness, as if the owner of the voice was gravely ill, or, for that matter, ghostly.

“You can't make me. You can't make me do anything. I'm free of it!”

“If you won't wear the robe,” Vry said, sounding exasperated, “you can't appear in public at all. I'll have you locked up in your room. And then we'll see how free you are.”

“I'm free. I'm free! Every night, when they took it away—every night I dreamed. I dreamed of this! And in the morning when they brought it to me again, I wept. You won't—you won't bring it back, will you? Promise!”

“I promise. Now put on the robe. And stop sniveling. It doesn't befit you. After Ladymas things will be different, just dream of that.”

Enough
. Croy had never been a keyhole-listener before. He did not relish gossip, or knowing other people's secrets. He knocked and announced himself firmly. “Message for you, your honor. From the moothall.”

“Damnation—what do the shopkeepers want with me now?” Vry said behind the door. Croy heard footsteps approaching and he stepped back to allow the door to open. Vry poked his head out and extended one long-fingered hand. “Give it here, and be gone,” he said.

Croy grabbed the hand and hauled the bailiff out into the hallway. Vry started to shout for his guards, but Croy was quick enough to get an arm around his throat and hold him still.

“You've come . . . to murder me, Croy? It doesn't . . . seem your style,” Vry managed to gasp out as Croy put pressure on his windpipe.

“I saw no other way to gain audience with you, Anselm. No, I'm here for exactly the reason I said, to deliver a message—though not from the masters of the guilds. Will you listen to me if I release you? I have vital information you require.”

“I'll listen,” Vry choked. Croy let him go. “I'll listen, then I'll have you arrested. I don't know how you managed to get in here, and I can only wonder how you expect to get back out with your head attached to your neck. What message could be so important that you would risk your life for it?”

“The sorcerer Hazoth has the Burgrave's crown,” Croy said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Croy shook his head. “You needn't pretend. I know everything. And now so do you. The crown is safe, sealed in a leaden coffer in Hazoth's sanctum. What he wants with it I have no idea. Now, I must be going.”

“You're right,” Vry told him. “This is vital information. I don't suppose you'd tell me how you came by it.”

“I'm bound to secrecy,” Croy said.

“Of course, of course.” Vry nodded in understanding. “Hazoth,” he said. He tapped his upper lip. “Can you get the crown away from him, d'you think?”

“By myself? No. But you can marshal troops enough to wrest it from him, certainly?”

“I suppose I can. I owe you my thanks, Croy.” Vry clapped him on the shoulder. “I only wish I could pay you back for this debt. But you know that the Burgrave's word is law, and he has ordered your death. What can I do for you, that will not counter his decision? It's not in my power to pardon you, much as I'd like to.”

Croy clutched his friend by the forearm. “Just give me a head start. Don't call your guards for five minutes. That will be enough. Oh, and Anselm?”

“Yes?” the bailiff asked.

“You really should take better note of who comes and goes through your gates.” Croy smiled broadly and gave the bailiff a deep bow. “I still serve the Burgrave,” he said. “My duty was clear.”

And yet—the words tasted wrong in Croy's mouth. For in truth it was not for the Burgrave he'd come to the palace. Cythera had told him all about the theft of the crown, and together they'd made this plan. She could not leave Hazoth's service as long as he held her mother prisoner—and while he lived, he would never release her. Croy knew he could not destroy the sorcerer on his own. No matter how strong his arm, no matter how puissant Ghostcutter's blade, he could not match Hazoth's magic.

Yet if it were to come to light that Hazoth was behind the plot to embarrass the Burgrave, well . . . perhaps the wheels of justice could turn in the right direction, just this one time. Anselm Vry would bring every guard and watchman in the city down on Hazoth's house, and they would see just how strong his magic was then.

Chapter Forty-Six

I
t was not Anselm Vry who next approached Hazoth's villa, however.

It was Malden.

He had spent most of the day hiding in the bushes of the Parkwall Common, crouching like a footpad without even a jug of brandy to keep him company. The last thing he wanted after his night carousing with Kemper was more liquor.

It was easy enough to stay still. Every time he moved he felt like his brains sloshed back and forth in his skull. He felt weak and queasy. He was not sure if that was his hangover or only fear.

The gate of Hazoth's villa opened and Bikker came striding out. This was what Malden had been waiting for. The bearded swordsman clanked as he walked—Malden could hear him all the way across the common—and he scratched at one armpit as he headed toward Old Fish Street, the road that led to the wharves on the river Skrait. Malden had no way of knowing what his business there might be, but he didn't care. As long as Bikker did not return for an hour or more.

When Bikker was well out of sight, Malden rose painfully to a standing posture and then walked across the green common, in full view of Hazoth's house. He wanted very badly to turn around and run, or at least to approach in a less conspicuous manner—there were trees all along one edge of the common that would hide him well.

He did not turn away.

At the gate, Hazoth's guards were waiting for him. They stood well inside the fence, and Malden knew from watching them a long time that they would be inside the radius of the spell that protected the place. He offered them no threat and they made no move to challenge him. They leaned on their polearms and just watched him come closer, daring him with their eyes to step through the gate.

There were six of them visible. They wore chain mail and surcoats in the colors of Hazoth's livery: black and scarlet. One of them turned his head and spat as Malden stepped up to the gate.

There was no turning back once he was through.

He stepped over the threshold.

He could perhaps be forgiven for closing his eyes as he took that fateful step. Yet nothing happened—at first. The forecourt of the villa was covered in crushed gravel, with here and there a dandelion or a sprig of clover poking up through the rocks. The gravel crunched under Malden's leather shoes. He took another step.

And that was when the spell took him. He felt as if he had run at full speed directly into a brick wall. His body tensed at the impact and his bones thrummed, though he could see no barrier before him. It felt like ghostly hands passed over his face and chest, and then something gripped him around the waist.

One of the guards laughed.

Malden did not cry out—he had no breath in his lungs—as the invisible force lifted him bodily off the ground. The grip around his waist and chest held him immobile as invisible fingers rifled through his purse and inside his tunic, as his cloak was lifted and checked for concealed weapons. He had been smart enough to leave his bodkin at home, but the buckle of his belt and the handful of copper coins in his purse grew searing hot for a moment, until he thought they would burn through his clothes. As quickly as it had come, however, that phantom heat dissipated.

The invisible hands lowered him to the ground again—but held him still.

“Good morrow to you,” Malden managed to croak out. He caught the eye of one of the guards. “Will you let me speak?”

The guard came over and jabbed him in the chest with the butt of his pikestaff. Hard enough to rattle his sternum. “What business have you here, dog?”

Malden licked his lips. His mouth was still very dry from the night before. “I have a message for Hazoth. One he desperately needs to hear.”

The guard smiled broadly. “Tell it to me, and perhaps we'll let you go.”

Malden nodded agreeably. “Would that I could. I'm afraid it must be communicated directly to the sorcerer, however. It is information of a . . . delicate nature, and best not spoken aloud where unwanted listeners might hear.”

The guard scowled. Yet he walked over to one of his fellows and conferred with him a while. Malden could do naught but wait—the invisible wall still held him pinned. He could not so much as scratch an itch.

The second guard ran into the house. He was gone quite a while. The others moved closer to the gate, weapons at the ready in case Malden had some charm that would free him from the invisible wall.

Not very clever of them, he thought. They should have been watching the fence, looking for some armed force approached from another direction. His own approach could have just been a diversion to hide the advance of a more dangerous force. The fact that he, who had no training in security, could see as much told him something. These were not soldiers, then, but only bravos hired to look menacing, not to effectively guard the villa.
Good to know
.

Not that he could make use of that information if the invisible guardian continued to hold him. It seemed he waited forever, exposed under the sun, unable to move. For a span nothing happened. Eventually, though, the guard returned from the house. He rushed over to his post as if nothing had happened, and Malden wondered if he should be left there, suspended in nothing, until he died of thirst.

But then Cythera stepped out of the doorway.

The hood of her velvet cloak was up, hiding her face in shadows. Her hands were bare, though, and seeing tattooed coils of ivy twisting around her fingers, Malden knew it was her.

She approached him directly, stopping five feet away. He supposed that spot must mark where the barrier ended on the inside—another useful thing to know.

“I am very glad to see you,” he said, smiling down upon her. “I'd bow to you, as you deserve, but as you can see, I'm a bit indisposed. If you'd be kind enough to let me down I'd be most obliged.”

“You're a fool,” she said. “You'll die here.”

“I'm desperate,” he told her. “If not here, I'll die elsewhere, and just as certain.”

She gave him a look of uncertainty. A questioning look. As if she could not believe he had come here and risked so much. He smiled in return, hiding his true fear. A part of him was woefully glad to see her again, and not just because she was the only one who could get him out of the barrier.

“As you wish,” Cythera said.

She lifted her hands in a complicated gesture, her fingers tucked in or stretched outward in weird contortions. She spoke a word that Malden could not hear clearly, even at so close a distance.

The air flexed with magic and he dropped to the ground, falling on his knees and scraping his hands on the gravel. The magic wall was gone. “I offered to bow, and now you see me kneel. You have my thanks, lady.”

Cythera did not offer to help him up. Instead she turned on her heel and walked back toward the house. The guards weren't even looking at Malden. He staggered to his feet and then raced after her, through the massive stone doors and into the coolth of a dim portico.