Den of Thieves (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

T
here was nothing Croy wanted more than to just lie down on the cobbles and rest a moment. His body was wracked with pain and he was still bleeding from the wound in his back. Yet he knew it would be only moments before the watch found him there—he had hardly covered his tracks on the way. He rolled onto his side and put a hand down on the cobbles. His strength was faltering and he could barely sit up.

The wound in his back must be deep. He could not afford to lose any more blood. His shortsword lay in the street next to his outflung hand. He grabbed it up and used it to cut off a wide swath of his cloak. This he tied around his back, as tight as he could bear. It might help, a little. Then again, it might be too late. He had already lost a great deal of blood. He had rarely felt so close to death before. Never had its chill embrace seemed more welcoming, more to be desired.

Yet there was that within him that refused to give up. As tempting as it might be to close his eyes and let slumber take him, his work was not yet done. Cythera and her mother remained enslaved. Hazoth still had the Burgrave's crown. He had to get up. He had to move from this place. He could rest, he promised himself, but only once he found a safe place to lie down. Where that might be, he had little idea.

As long as he lived, though—as long as Cythera needed his help—he had to make the best of what strength he had. And that meant standing up.

He regained his feet. He did not know how he did it—the simple act of putting one foot under him, then the other, made his vision go black and his brain howl in protest until he could not think. His muscles were trained to keep going, though, no matter what occurred. They got him upright and walking.

He struggled with the remains of his tattered cloak, managing to pull it over the hilts of his swords so they didn't show. Down here, armed citizens were rare, and the swords would draw exactly the kind of attention he wanted to avoid. Not that he saw anyone about—or much of anything at all, really.

The air was thick with smoke and fumes, unhealthy vapors rising from the rendering vats in the tanner's yard. Down the street a great pillar of ash and sparks rose from an iron foundry. The Smoke was shrouded in a poisonous miasma at all times—on an overcast day like this its air was as thick as porridge. This foul air and its characteristic stench would flow downhill, into the district of poverty and crime called the Stink. It was the fumes that gave the Stink its name. He headed down a long street with no doors or windows, only blank walls like a great chute. At its end was an open yard where Croy saw two men in a ropewalk, walking backward as they braided together stout cords into rope. One made a joke and the other laughed boisterously. As he staggered past they turned to stare at him. One called out, but Croy couldn't understand what he said—the blood was pounding too loud in his ears.

He passed a cooperage where workers scorched the insides of barrels by swishing spirits of wine around inside them and then setting them alight. Red fireballs leapt from the mouth of each barrel as the lighter ducked down out of the way.

Next door was a brewery, the air around it thick with the smell of fermenting hops and steam off the great malting kettles. Croy started belching as he passed through a thick cloud of vapor. For a moment he could see nothing, the acrid cloud making his eyes water.

When he stumbled out of the cloud, someone put their arm around his shoulders.

“Careful now, friend! I mean you no harm,” the stranger cooed as Croy reeled away and tried to draw his shortsword.

He let his hand fall back. “I know you—
urk
—not,” Croy said.

“Ah, but I'm your best friend in the world, aren't I? A fellow like you needs a good friend at a time like this. Here, lean against me, I'm solid enough.”

The stranger was a fattish man in a tight jerkin and leather breeches. His eyes were set close together and he had very little in the way of a chin. He was certainly no watchman, nor a palace guard. He had a belt knife but no other visible weapons.

“Don't I have an honest face? Ha ha,” the man laughed. “Come with me now, we'll see you safe and warm in a moment. I know a little place right around the corner.”

He thinks me drunk, Croy thought. “What kind of place?”

“A sort of temple,” the stranger told him. “A little shrine, for the right sort of devotee. Ha ha. It's just up here.”

Had he been feeling stronger, Croy might have shaken the man off. He knew what game was being played out here. He lacked the strength to walk away, though. As it was, he had to lean hard on the stranger, but they managed to turn the corner. He had fully expected the man to lead him into an alleyway and there try to slit his throat, but it seemed this little temple was a real place: a tavern, where workers just coming off their shifts were spending the little pay they'd earned that day. It had an open storefront where an alewife poured ladles of watered wine for passersby. Behind her Croy could see a roaring fire and a crowded common room.

It would be good to get out of the mist and dry off, he thought. And perhaps a drink would bolster his flagging body. The laughing stranger hurried him inside and made a hand sign at the taverner, who leaned on a second bar inside. “Here, give me a coin, will you? An offering to the god of the house, call it. Ha ha.”

Croy drew a coin from his purse and too late saw that it was silver. It was already in the stranger's hand. “Ooh, pretty, hark the way it shines, hmm? This'll do nicely, ha ha. Come, let us find a place to sit, oh, it's quite crowded out here, isn't it?”

“Private room,” Croy rasped. “I need to—sit down.”

“Sure you do. Long day's work for men like us, hmm? This way, this way, mind that fellow's feet, he's a real rough customer, wouldn't want to start anything, ha ha, here, here, no, over here, through the door, that's right. Here's a bench for you, and a little table. And, ah! Here comes the priest himself to perform the mass.”

“Stow that nonsense, Tyron,” the taverner said, backing through the door with a tray in his hands. He set an earthenware bottle of distilled spirit and two goblets on the table, but poured into only one of them. “He's probably so far gone he doesn't understand a word you're saying.” He scratched his eyebrow with one filthy nail, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. The stranger—Tyron—nodded discreetly. So the taverner was in on the scheme, Croy realized.

Croy leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sitting down was helping, he thought. He hadn't realized how taxing just walking through bad air could be. A little strength trickled back into his arms.

“A bit of this will have you back on your feet, ha ha,” Tyron said, and pushed the full goblet toward him. Croy made a show of reaching for it, then knocked it over clumsily so its contents spilled across the table. The liquor had the viscous consistency and milky color of blisswine. Even if it wasn't adulterated with some drug—and Croy was certain it was—it would have put him to sleep before he finished the generous portion. “Oh, clumsy, and that stuff's expensive, ha ha,” Tyron japed, “lucky for me it's not my coin. Here, lean back, that's right. Get comfortable. There's no place for you to be, nothing needs doing. Let me loosen your cloak for you, it's catching at your neck.” Nimble fingers undid the clasp and the cloak fell away from Croy's shoulders. “And here, this is too tight as well,” Tyron said, reaching toward Croy's belt. Instead of opening the buckle, however, he began to pull at the strings of Croy's purse.

Croy lunged forward and knocked Tyron to the floor. The villain wasn't fast enough to dodge out of the way as Croy's shortsword sprang from its scabbard and came around in a weak swing—all he could manage—that left its point gently touching Tyron's throat.

“Thief,” Croy said. “You thought I was drunk. You were going to—what's the word—roll me. Weren't you? Take my money and leave me unconscious in an alley.”

“No, friend, you have me all wrong, ha ha,” Tyron said, his eyes very bright.

“Don't lie,” Croy said, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch. It brought the point of his shortsword that much closer to the man's jugular vein.

“Ha ha, now don't be so hasty, milord,” Tyron said, his eyes roaming around the room. “There's plenty of fellows outside that door who know me. And none who know you from the Lady's archpriest, do they?”

“I can cut your throat before you can call for help,” Croy pointed out. “Then I can—I can walk . . . walk out of here, and none the wiser.”

“They know the score,” Tyron said. He wasn't laughing now. “If you leave here without my arm around your shoulders, they'll know something's gone wrong. They'll stop you before you reach the street.”

“That,” Croy managed to growl, “will be of little comfort to you, as you'll be dead back here before I open the door.”

“All right. All right. Take your ease,” Tyron pleaded. “Tell me what you want of me, and I'll do it. I swear. Just take that cutter away from my throat.”

A service. The man would perform a service, in exchange for his life. It was like the old stories. Like the tales of demons bound to grant wishes. But what did he wish for at this moment? What could possibly help him? He was lost in the Smoke, away from all friends and aid. Away from anyone who could ensure his safety. Nor could he count on his friends anymore. The rich friend who he had been staying with—the fellow who was kind enough to loan his horse—would surely turn his back on him now. Before, Croy had been a figure of fascination, a symbol of the man's generosity. Now he was a wanted criminal. No, even if his friend would take him in, Croy knew he would be doing him a great disservice by going back there. He thought of Murd-lin, the dwarf envoy. Murdlin had saved him from the gallows once. But he'd also said their account was square, that he had repaid Croy in full. Dwarves never forgot a debt—but they never gave anything on credit either.

Perhaps, though—perhaps he could call not on a friend but on an acquaintance. Someone with whom he shared the slenderest of links, but a link nonetheless. There was one man in the Stink, one man who cared for Cythera, just as he did. One thief. Tyron might even know him—or at least how to reach him.

“You like silver, don't you? Don't you?” Croy demanded.

“Oh, aye, and who doesn't?” Tyron wheedled.

“Do me a service, and earn it, then. I have a message to send. And I think you might know how to deliver it.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

“I
t's just as I said, ha ha,” Tyron told them. “Look, he's weak as a kitten. Three against one, those are fine odds. We cut his throat while he's sleeping, that makes even better sense. Then we take his silver and dump the body in the Skrait, yes? It'll be out in the ocean to be nibbled by the fishes before anyone even knows he's gone.”

Malden shot a glance sideways at Kemper. The intangible sharper kept his face as still as stone, no doubt thinking exactly what he was thinking.

“Keep your voice down,” Malden whispered. “If he wakes it'll take more than us to put him to sleep again.”

“It don't take three men t'slit some sleepin' bugger's neckpipe,” Kemper advised in even lower tones.

“You can't cut me out of this. I know too much, ha ha,” Tyron said. “I've seen his face. A man of quality like that. A knight, or better, he is. But wounded like this, and so far from Castle Hill. There must be someone—ha ha—looking for him. But not someone, I wager, he wants to be found by. Else why would he have sent for the likes of you two? He's trouble, this one. You think the watch won't want to hear about this?”

On the floor, Sir Croy rolled over on his side with a moan. The hilts of his two swords stuck up at bad angles from his back. Sweat sheened his face and blood stained his clothes. He wasn't going to wake anytime soon.

“I didn't have to cut you in at all,” Tyron went on. “I could have just waited till he slept, then taken everything for myself. We do this together, and then maybe you'll speak the right word in the right ear. Maybe I find myself in a new position, ha ha.”

Malden knew what the man meant—his measure was already taken. Before agreeing to come with Tyron into the Smoke, he had learned the man's whole life story.

Tyron was not one of Cutbill's thieves. He was not really a thief at all, at least not all the time. Mostly he labored at a redsmith's, working brass into latten with a cloth-covered hammer. It was not pleasant work and it paid barely anything, so Tyron was always happy to supplement his income with a quick bit of thuggery. Rolling drunks, short change confidence games, picking pockets when he could get away with it—any quick and dirty scheme to make an extra bit of coin. He was smart enough to have an arrangement with the tavern's owner. That showed organizational skills—which had promise. He was just the sort of fellow Cutbill might take on as an apprentice, though it was unlikely he'd ever rise much higher. Tyron only knew he wanted the protection that Cutbill's guild could bring him, and that alone had made him actually carry out Croy's bidding.

When Croy had asked Tyron to fetch Malden, Tyron knew enough to contact one of Cutbill's agents. It might have gone no further, though, had Malden not been at Cutbill's lair at the time, conferring with Slag the dwarf. He and Kemper had come at once, with Tyron leading them. No more than two hours had passed since Croy tasked Tyron with his message.

Had it taken any longer, Croy might have been dead before they arrived.

Malden knelt down next to the knight, who was moaning softly now. The swordsman's face was fish-belly white. He must have lost a great deal of blood. It would be child's play to kill him now, but Malden had something else in mind. He carefully opened Croy's purse. He had a lighter touch that Tyron, though most likely it didn't matter. Croy was feeling nothing but pain.

“Here,” Malden said, taking out a mixed handful of silver and copper coins. Not a farthing in the bunch. He picked out ninepence and tossed them to Tyron. “There's plenty more here, if you'll do one more errand. Find me a physick. A
discreet
physick. Bring him here and you can have half this purse. Then you're done—you leave and tell no one about this. There must be a dozen silver galleons here. Not bad for a half night's work, is it? Cross me, however, and I'll send my associate after you.”

“Him?” Tyron said. “A beggarly card cheat? Why should I fear—”

Kemper lunged at the thug and drove both hands deep into Tyron's chest. Tyron opened his mouth to scream and a stream of icy vapor issued from his mouth.

“Are we agreed?” Malden asked.

They most certainly were.

Tyron returned shortly, leading a man in a robe and a long conical paper mask. Malden peered through the holes in the mask and saw bleary eyes staring back. He paid Tyron and sent him on his way, with a promise to speak well of him to Cutbill.

“You're a trained physick?” Malden asked when Tyron was gone and he could speak plainly with the healer.

“I am.” The man removed his mask—meant to protect him from the disease-ridden vapors of the Smoke—and rubbed at his face. He wore a pomander at his belt and stank of flowers and garlic. “I'm a doctor of physick, if you would know. Trained up at the university, under doctors Jacinth and Detwiler, and—”

“Good enough,” Kemper said. “But can ye keep yer mouth shut?”

The physick looked from Kemper back to Malden. “I'm usually employed by the workshops in this area. They pay me well to look after men hurt on the job. My employers prefer not to have suits of law brought against them—even in this place there are laws against negligence. So yes, I can be kept quiet. For the right price. Is this the man I'm to treat?” he asked, pointing at Croy.

“D'ye see anyone else who needs ye?” Kemper demanded.

“You might have moved him to a bed, if you cared about his health,” the physick replied. “For all I know you're willing to let him die.” He dragged Croy up to a sitting position, then pried the knight's mouth open to look at his tongue. He felt for Croy's pulses and put an ear to his chest to listen to his wind. “Has he moved his bowels since he came here? Or passed any water?”

“Ye want to see his piss?” Kemper asked. “What kind o' sick fella are ye?”

The physick clucked his tongue. “I don't expect that your sort knows
anything
of medicine, nor shall I explain myself in detail. But the urine of a man is a great treasury of secrets, to those who know how to read it. I might find traces of extravagant humors in it. There might be blood in it, which would be a very bad sign indeed.”

“Tell ye what, buy me a coupla drinks, I'll give ye all the urine ye can stomach,” Kemper said with a cackle.

The physick looked like he might jump up and leave on the moment. Malden rushed forward to put a hand on the man's arm. “Forgive him. He's little more than a peasant. Sure a man as worldly and learned as yourself can rise above such petty taunting?”

“I assure you, my interest in his urine is purely professional!”

“Of course it is,” Malden said, “and professionals,” he added, taking coins from his purse, “are paid for their services.”

It was enough to make the physick return to his labors.

While he worked, Malden stepped aside with Kemper and spoke quietly. “You don't care for medicos, hmm?”

“Oh, was I rude?” Kemper said with mock shame. “Nah, lad, I ne'er liked 'em, e'en back when I were reg'lar flesh. 'Specially not then. They're more like t'kill ye than heal ye, if ye've anythin' worse'n a bruise on yer li'l finger.”

Malden shrugged. “True, but if we do nothing, Croy will die. I at least want a chance to talk to him before that. He had something to say to me, and I can't afford not to hear it right now. We only have five more days before . . . before Ladymas. Croy is connected to what we're doing, somehow. I'd like to know how.”

“Aye,” Kemper said, looking almost contrite. “Yer in the right. Just don't let that butcher near me.”

Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man's breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn't festered yet. I've bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He'll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he'll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he's hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”

“Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.

“You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he's to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days—well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”

He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy's silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people's money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”

“It is. Though let me warn you—I'm not the only one who's going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.

“Did you hear that, Croy? You're an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight's foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”

Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.