Den of Thieves (24 page)

Chapter Fifty

K
emper had been reluctant to help Malden in his reconnaissance of Hazoth's villa, yet he admitted he owed Malden a significant debt. Had Malden not rescued him from the Burgrave's dungeon, he would have been tortured to death.

Besides—the plan had been half Kemper's idea, or at least it inspired by the card sharp's offhand comment the night of their carouse. Kemper had asked him why he didn't just go in and ask for the crown back. He had, of course, been joking. Yet when Malden sobered up he realized that he did in fact have the perfect cover story to get him inside the sorcerer's house. And casing the place was essential if he was to steal the crown back.

“I can see no other way to resolve my difficulties,” he'd told Kemper. “Will you help me?”

“Aye,” the intangible scoundrel had said at last. Together they formulated a scheme for it. Kemper could walk through normal walls like a ghost, but the wizardly wall surrounding Hazoth's villa would keep him out as well as if it had been made of solid silver. The wall had to be dropped, however, every time someone came in or out of the grounds. When it was lowered for him, Kemper would have a chance to sneak in as well.

After the fact, Malden was deeply glad they had worked the thing so carefully. The wall didn't just immobilize those who tried to cross it. It searched him with invisible fingers, combing through his pockets and his clothes with studied precision. Had Kemper been caught in that wall even for a moment, the jig would certainly have been up—Hazoth would have known the game they were playing and would have destroyed them both in the time it took him to blink an eye. It had been a major risk anyway, since they had no way of knowing just how aware Hazoth was of who was in his house at a given time. They had proven, Malden decided, that it was possible to enter the house without immediately alerting Hazoth to one's presence, and that was a major step forward in the plot. Something to be grateful for anyway.

“I could tell, o' course, when it came down,” Kemper said, leaning forward to suck drink through his reed. “I could feel it in me bones, smell it in the air. I knew I must be quick, so I dashed in through the garden, while the guards weren't payin' close watch. I think they was watching you up front, mostly, and I learned long ago how t'keep low and out o' sight. The door hard by the kitchens was closed, but 'twas no problem for the likes o' me. I slipped through neat as eel pie and found the stairs what servants use afore the wall was e'en up agin.”

Malden had guessed beforehand—and been proven correct—that what he'd be allowed to see of the interior of the house would be restricted to the lower floor. In his experience, most rich men kept their offices on the ground floor of their homes, rather than force their guests to climb stairs. Thus he had tasked Kemper with exploring what he could of the upper two floors.

“The second story's about what ye'd expect, plenty o' bedrooms, a couple o' garderobes, storage fer linens, clothes, and whatnot. I didn't check much there, seein' I was bein' careful wi' the time. The third story's where things get int'restin', though. His own bedchamber's up there, and ooh, is it grand. Silken sheets and pillers, divans an' lookin' glasses ever'where. There's chains hangin' from the ceilin', too, with manacles on 'em, what felt like cold-forged iron. What you think he gets up t'wi' those, eh? Eh? Maybe human lasses is too normal for his lot. Maybe he's conjurin' up suck-you-bye from the pit t'have his way wi'. What you s'pose that's like, eh? Eh?”

Malden's eyes went wide just with imagining. In the House of Sighs, the most expensive of the city's whorehouses, there was a famous fresco of a succubus copulating with a sleeping man. He had run many errands to the House of Sighs as a boy, and that image had been impressed firmly in his youthful mind. He'd never before considered, though, that succubi might actually exist. Did they have wings, like in the painting? And horns, and— But enough. “What of the rest of the floor? Surely there's more than just the one bedchamber. There must be. Did you see the crown?”

“Nay, lad, nay. But I think I mighta seen where it's hid. There's a study on that story, a mickle space for him to write letters and do his reckonin's. Then there's a workshop fit for a dwarf, wi' all manner o' tools and materials waitin' to be fashioned. There's a room full o' glassware, I ne'er seen its like, all manner and shape o' tubes and pots and bowls, some bubblin', some smokin', some full o' what looked like ghost-stuff. I didn't spend long in there for the smell, which were like rotten eggs. The biggest room up there's at the end of a hallway, ain't never used by the folk o' the house. There's dust on the rugs in there, and the doors is all locked up tight, and the lock's half rusted. I'm figurin' there's traps all over that corridor, set for any thief what dares to try for the big room.”

“But what's in this big room?” Malden asked.

“That,” Kemper said, “shall remain a mystery, I fear. I was bein' extra careful in that hall, in case there's such a trap as could kill a nosy ghost, mind. I was barely inside th' hall when I heard ye out in the garden, scuffin' up gravel and chattin' all frien'ly like wi' yer tattooed lady.”

“I tried to make as much noise as I could, without causing fuss, and stall as long as possible to give you time to make your escape,” Malden promised. It had been their agreed upon signal that he would make some noise when he was being ejected from the house. Kemper had to exit the place at the same time he did or risk being stuck inside the magical wall when it was brought back up.

“Oh, aye, ye did marv'lous well. I fled down th' stairs and out th' side, where some trees grow right up t'th' fence. Now, trees or fence, it makes no diff'rence fer one o' my proclivities. I was out like a crossbow quarrel and away, e'er ye was finished makin' time. So who's yer leman, huh? Who's this bird, anyroad? Ye've taken a fancy to her?”

Malden blushed. He actually blushed at the thought. “She's fair enough to look at. Not fair as in light of complexion, of course. But underneath all that ink she's a beauty. But—this is silly talk. She's betrothed, I think. Or at least promised.”

“Betrothed ain't the same as wed,” Kemper said with a leer. He tried to jog Malden's ribs with his elbow, but of course it just went through Malden's flesh like air. He felt his breath turn to ice and coughed out a puff of vapor.

“Betrothed . . . to a fellow with a whacking great sword,” Malden clarified. “I don't know that it would work out. She seems to like strapping men with chiseled features. I like women whose paramours can't cut my head off for looking upon them.”

“No woman's perfect,” Kemper admitted. “ 'Course, if'n you was diddlin' her, well, she'd be right useful t' a fella wanted t'break into her house, wouldn't she?” He sucked up a great sip of his drink. “What in the Bloodgod's hairy arse is this? Small beer?”

Malden shrugged. Small beer was what you served children, of course—milk being too useful for making butter and cheese, and water being nowhere in the city so clean you'd give it to any child you liked. “I figured after last night—well, my head's still pounding.”

“And th' cure for that's this weak brew?” Kemper shook his head. “Nay, lad, ye've much I can teach ye yet. What we need now's brandy, and great lashings of it. Call the servin' wench. We've a great vict'ry today, let's celebrate it!”

Malden did as he was told, though in truth he didn't feel much like celebrating. He'd seen the inside of Hazoth's house, yes. But what he'd seen had told him his work was cut out for him. Stealing the crown had been hard.

Stealing it back would take a miracle.

Part III
The Crew

Interlude

C
ythera prepared Hazoth's dinner that evening—a good haunch of venison and a plate of radishes soaked in milk—and laid it out on a silver tray. She started to walk from the preparatory to the dining room where he normally took his evening meal, alone at that enormous table. He had invisible footmen to serve him, but he didn't trust them to make his dinner—they lacked tongues or noses, and so had no idea how to properly spice meat, he said. Cythera suspected he had another reason for demanding that she cook for him. Perhaps it was yet another of the indignities he liked to heap on her, for—

Light sprang up around her, interrupting her thoughts. She felt her stomach slide sideways while the rest of her shot upward into the air, straight through the ceiling, and suddenly she was standing in Hazoth's inner sanctum, the tray still clutched in her hands.

She did her best not to gasp. It would cost her if she flinched or showed any weakness in his presence. Still, it was always surprising when he transported her like that.

Normally, magic did not affect her at all. The charm on her skin kept her safe from all enchantments and dweomers. Hazoth had explained, however, that the displacement spell he used to move her around his villa did not, in fact, work
on
her. It moved space around her instead, shifting the villa through various dimensions without ever touching her directly. It was one of his favorite tricks, probably because it disoriented her so.

She found herself standing before the rose window, red and blue light streaming across her face. The pattern of glass was a hex of considerable power—it was very good at shielding the sanctum from magical viewing. Cythera had always found it beautiful in its own right, at least until recently.

She allowed herself a momentary glance to the side. She moved only her eyes, and just enough to get a glimpse of the wretched form in the magic circle. Her mother did not lift her head. If Coruth was aware of her presence at all, she made no outward sign. Cythera could only hope that the witch had some other, more subtle sense that let her hear her thoughts.

Help is coming
, Cythera whispered in her mind.
Croy will not fail us
.

She received no reply.

“Well, don't let it get cold, girl,” Hazoth said, behind her.

Cythera turned and forced a smile. Hazoth liked her to be cheerful when she served him. It was difficult to keep her composure when she saw what he was doing, though. On a long worktable he had the body of a minor demon pinned down and cut open. It was little more than an imp, a long-legged batrachian thing with eyes like fire opals. Hazoth had his arms up to the elbows in its viscera. When the imp turned its head to the side to look at her, she nearly dropped the tray.

The demon made a horrible gurgling noise. Cythera forced herself to ignore its obvious suffering.

“It screamed like a natural thing before I disconnected its larynx,” Hazoth assured her as she set the tray down on a nearby table, pushing aside a number of arcane instruments to make room. “This is going to take all night. I didn't wish to be distracted by coming down to the dining room, so I decided to sup here.”

Cythera did not reply.

“Strange. There's no digestive apparatus at all,” Hazoth mused as he pulled his hands free of the vivisection. “They devour their prey, everyone knows that, but they can't draw sustenance from it. Unless they persist simply on the suffering and fear of their victims.”

Cythera often wondered if the same could be said of her master. She stood by, motionless, waiting to see if he required anything else.

Hazoth came over to the tray and stared down at it. Then he glanced at his hands, which were still coated in ichor. “Hmm,” he said, “I really ought to wash. No time, though.” Sneering at the slimy mess, he spoke a word that curdled in the air. Blue flames licked over his wrists and palms, consuming the gore that had coated them. Cythera did not even wince as she felt new vines and flowers blooming in the small of her back.

She watched in silence as Hazoth grabbed up the haunch and started chewing on it. She had a linen napkin tucked up the sleeve of her gown, and she removed it carefully in case he should require it.

“Oh, since you're here—there's something I'm sure you'll want to know. My little trick with the book failed. That rodentine thief of yours is still alive. You know, I'm almost glad. I admit I find him more amusing by the day. Maybe we'll have to bring him here and give him a job after all, hmm?”

It was not a question that required an answer. Cythera held her tongue.

“Of course, it's no great surprise he survived. We already knew he had an animal's uncanny sense for danger. After all, he knew better than to kiss you, didn't he? I really thought I had him there. What man could resist your charms, if he didn't know what the price would be? Perhaps you warned him, though. Perhaps you didn't try hard enough. Even though we both know you
wanted
to kiss him.”

Cythera kept her eyes focused straight ahead. She did not allow her cheeks to flush, did not permit herself the slightest reaction. Hazoth only spoke to her like this when he was bored. It was a little game. An amusement. He would say something provocative—perhaps hint at some dark secret relating to her mother, or tell her a story of some perverse sexual encounter he'd had four hundred years ago. If she gasped or even so much as shuddered, he would crow and caper. And then he would punish her.

He had so many different ways to punish her.

“I could tell, when I saw the two of you together. I could hear your heart beating faster. The smell of your breath changed. You want him. You want the little thief to be your plaything, don't you, Cythera? Hmm? I asked you a question, girl.”

“As you wish, master. If you wish for me to desire him, then I shall.”

Hazoth laughed. “You can't hide it from me. I could taste it in the air, the change that came over you. You were
concerned
for him.
Afraid
of what I would do to him. Just ask me, girl, and I'll bring him here. I'll put a charm on him that will drag him straight to your bedchamber.” He tore off a strip of venison with his teeth and chewed noisily. “I'll make him kneel before you. I'll make him burn for you. Just a word, and that can be yours. Of course, you'll destroy him the moment he paws at you with his coarse hands. One rough touch and he'll be torn to pieces. But maybe that would give you pleasure, hmm? Would that make you sigh? Would it make you moan?”

“I serve at your pleasure, master. Not my own.”

Hazoth stared at her with his perfect, clear eyes. She knew he was trying to look into her heart, to winkle out her secrets. The charm on her skin made that impossible, but he still tried from time to time. He took an interest in her, certainly. After all, she was all that stood between him and a series of gruesome deaths.

“I think perhaps I'll summon your Sir Croy instead. That jumped-up man-at-arms needs to be taught a lesson one of these days. I think I'll bring him here right now. And then you'll tell him. You'll list all the things you dream of doing with the thief. Sir Croy will have to stand here and listen while you describe all your filthy longings. How does that sound? Do you think he loves you enough to listen to that and forget everything he's heard? Do you think he'd still love you as much after he heard those secrets?”

“If it would amuse you, master—”

He clucked his tongue in distaste. That was the worst part of the game. Even if she did maintain her composure, even if she swallowed her bile and kept her thoughts to herself, it simply angered him.

Sometimes that was worse.

“I could bring them both here, if you liked. I could bring them both to this room, right now, and make them fight over you. I could make them tear each other apart with their bare hands. Would you like that? Would it excite you, child, to see them struggle for your affections? Well? Would it?”

Cythera couldn't help herself. A small sound started deep in her throat, a tiny whimper. When it came out of her mouth it was so soft she thought it must be lost in the noise of Hazoth's chewing.

She was wrong.

“I've got you,” he said, and dropped the haunch back on the platter. He wiped his fingers on his robe and came to stand behind her, his meaty breath hot on her ear. “I got through, at last,” he whispered. “Both of them, no less! You care for them both!” He nearly giggled in his excitement. “Oh, Cythera, my dear, you'll stretch your heart too thin! I'll summon them both and make them both lust for you, shall I? Make them compete over who gets to deflower you first. Oh, I can see in your eyes how much you don't want that.”

“I want nothing but—but—” she stammered.

He waved a greasy hand in dismissal. “Never you mind, Cythera. In point of fact, there's no need to do any of that. In a few days it will be Ladymas. In the confusion of that day, Bikker will hunt them both down and butcher them while the watch is preoccupied.”

“Of course, master,” she managed. She had regained her composure once she knew he wouldn't follow up on his threats. “May I go now?”

“I suppose,” Hazoth said. “I should really return to my studies.”

“Thank you, Magus,” Cythera said. She waited for him to transport her back to the preparatory.

He began to make the necessary passes in the air with his hands—but then stopped without warning.

It seemed he had one more thing to say.

“I know you hate me, girl,” he muttered. “I know you're plotting against me. I know you think Sir Croy is going to come here and save you and your mother. But it's hopeless, Cythera. No one can help you now. You're mine, and always will be.”

“I—I—”

“I think you need to be reminded of this simple fact.”

In the end, there was never any way to avoid the punishments.