Den of Thieves (29 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

L
ater that day, Malden climbed up on top of a house in the Stink near the cloth market. Below him lay Woolcomb Square—actually a triangular space where five roads came together—with merchants doing a bustling trade, hanging out bolts of fine loden and broadcloth on high wooden racks. The women who came there to buy grabbed up handfuls of the stuff and rubbed it against their cheeks to test its softness, or tugged hard at it to measure its strength.

In their midst a girl in a tattered kirtle sold ribbon from a tray around her neck, lengths of her wares hanging down like multicolored tongues. The ribbon covered her hands nicely, and Malden watched with professional appreciation as she went up to one goodwife after another and clutched at their skirts, begging them to buy a little something so her family wouldn't starve. When inevitably the female citizens clouted her across the ear to make her give off, she would cry and run away—straight to the dilapidated stall of a button seller who never seemed to make a sale. Her tiny hand would plunge deep into a barrel full of sequins and the button seller would nod in satisfaction. She was good, this urchin, and Malden chuckled because he never saw the coins she stole. She was just that fast.

Behind him Croy clambered up over a gutter and onto the roof. Malden gestured for him to get down, to lie prone on the scorching-hot shingles, just as he had.

“I beg your pardon for taking so long getting up here,” Croy said. His face was white as milk. “I fear I'm not fully recovered yet.”

“I'm less worried about your speed than your noise,” Malden told him in a harsh whisper. “With all the metal you're carrying, you clang and rattle like a cutler's wagon. Do you really need to carry both those swords all the time?”

Croy frowned. “Well, yes. Ghostcutter has a special destiny, and should be saved for high combat, while simple bladework demands my shortsword, which—”

“Spare me,” Malden said. He returned to studying the market below. “You're certain Cythera will come here today?”

“Once a month she ventures here from Hazoth's villa to replace worn or stained cloths,” Croy told him. “Beyond her duties as a deflector of curses, she serves as the mistress of his household. All the necessities of life are her responsibility, as he cannot be bothered to see to his own arrangements. He spends every day in his laboratory or his sanctum, deeply absorbed in his studies.”

“You've been watching his movements, too,” Malden said. “Studying him with equal diligence.”

“When I returned to the city I think I already knew that eventually I must face him. He will never let her go for any price. She's far too valuable to him—without her, he must suffer the rivalry of every demon in the pit, and be beset by the curses they send his way on a daily basis. No, I must force him to release her, one way or another.”

“Well, that's what we're here for.”

Croy frowned. “Are you truly sure we must involve her? She's pledged to his service. She might betray us if we let her know what we plan.”

He had thought the same thing, of course. Yet he saw no other way. “If we're to have any chance at all,” Malden said, “any hope, we need her on our side. If there's a way she can help us that doesn't put her in danger, I'll take it. But this is too important not to try to enlist her aid. Surely she'll want to help us, since we're her only chance, too.”

“I pray you're right.”

Malden watched with a frown as the ribbon girl's hand was seized by an especially wary shopper. Great sobbing tears and wails granted her no mercy, and the goodwife squeezed her hand until it opened. The ribbon girl held up her empty palm as emblem of her innocence, and the goodwife was forced to release her. The ribbon girl ran off as fast she could, pitching her ribbon tray on a pile of ordure in an alley. The ribbons had been worthless tat, Malden realized, valued only for the cover they gave her real occupation. Now that she was under suspicion it meant nothing to her. Ah, and it was too bad—a good scheme, but now the game was up. Doubtless she'd have another scheme cooked up by tomorrow, though. The button seller did not react at all to her desertion.

There was still no sign of Cythera. Malden shifted his position slightly to get more comfortable on the shingles. It might be a long wait.

“One thing I don't understand. What does Hazoth want with the crown? Does he simply wish to study its enchantment?” he asked.

Croy had no good answer. “It puzzles me as well. Hazoth was a good friend of the first Burgrave, Juring Tarness. They fought together against the elves that once held this place. Hazoth was instrumental to the founding of Ness. In the intervening years he's showed no sign of rebellion—Ness has always been a safe haven for him. He's been protected here, where sorcerers in other cities have been burned at the stake. In return for that protection he's always supported the Burgravate to the best of his powers. A less civic-minded sorcerer would have been run out of the Free City long since—he would have been burned at the stake. Such men rarely live long, and yet Hazoth has persisted through centuries.”

“I imagine knowing all that magic helps,” Malden pointed out.

“He is a powerful sorcerer. From the tales I've heard, though, he must have changed much over the centuries. In those days, before the Free City had its charter, Juring Tarness was a great general. He defended the kingdom against the elves and then against the dwarves, who had better weapons and impregnable fortresses all through this land. Hazoth turned the tide in that conflict, as the dwarves had no sorcerers of their own and could not resist his magic. Hazoth was hailed as a great hero, and Juring a protector of the realm.”

“I saw the campaign banners hanging in his tower room, when I took the crown,” Malden said, thinking hard. “A great leader of men, was he?”

“Juring? Oh, yes. They say his voice had the power to compel. It was not magic, I think, but sheer force of character.”

“So anyone he spoke to would be inspired to follow his orders. Interesting.” Malden was beginning to put together a few facts, but so far he had no conclusions. He made a mental note to revisit the idea again.

Croy's voice had a note of the highest admiration as he said, “Juring was a born ruler, and yet he served his king faithfully. When he founded the city, he proved—as is not often the case—to be as good a statesman as he was a warrior. The king of that era asked him what reward he would choose for his service. Juring could have had anything—riches, a grand fief, a personal army. Instead he requested freedom for the people of Ness. They had supported him through a long and trying campaign, you see. A time of great suffering for his army. He used his reward to give them perpetual safety from taxes and bondservice. The freedom you now possess is only guaranteed by the charter he asked the king to sign. In fact—”

“Hold,” Malden said.

Down in the market, Cythera had arrived. She was dressed in a fine purple velvet cloak and moved listlessly from stall to stall, barely fingering the cloth on display. She was followed by one of Hazoth's retainers, a sallow-faced man with a chain-mail shirt and an axe on his belt. He pushed a barrow to hold her purchases, but his eyes were watching the crowd, perhaps searching every face for sign of threat.

“I hoped she would come alone,” Malden said. The plan had been to draw her into some secluded bystreet, and there converse with her in private. It was crucial she not be seen talking with either him or Croy, as word of such a meeting would doubtless get back to Hazoth. “All right,” he said. “This will just take a bit of cunning. Follow me down.”

The two of them climbed down a drainpipe on the side of the house, out of view of the crowded market. Croy had some trouble on the way down and nearly fell, but he caught himself in time. Malden led him around a corner and back into the market from a different direction. He did not approach Cythera directly, but made sure to cross her path so she saw the two of them.

When they were buried again in the throng of people, Malden whispered to Croy, “Did you note her face when we passed?” He had been careful not to look at her, but he knew Croy would not have been able to resist.

“She saw me,” Croy said, but he sounded crestfallen. “Her eyes—they went cold, and she looked away. Malden, she did not even smile at me.”

Nor at me, Malden thought, and then chastised himself. Any hope he'd had of catching Cythera's favor—and it had been a forlorn hope, at best—was gone now that Croy was in the picture again. He'd heard the way Croy talked about Cythera, about how they had pledged to marry. Surely he had no chance of competing with a knight of the realm. A man who owned a bloody castle, for Sadu's sake. No, it was for the best if he put those feelings away. Let them die a natural death.

Still. It hurt.

He waved one hand in the air as if to dispel a miasmic vapor. “That's because she's wise enough to be discreet, nothing more. Come. I have a notion of our next move.”

Chapter Sixty

T
he button seller looked up with a broad smile as Malden approached his stall. “Well met, sir, come, come, take a look here, finest horn—and not just ox horn, no sir, this is made of shavings from a unicorn's famed weaponry. Proof against poison, sir, you'll never need fear bad drink or food again.”

Malden frowned. He met the button seller's eye with a meaningful look and then placed his hand on a barrel of sequins. He pushed his fingers through the thin bits of metal, as if he would root around in the bottom of the barrel. The ribbon girl's takings were at its bottom, he was sure. The button seller stared at him with suspicion in his eyes, but only a moment. Next, Malden stepped over to a barrel full of assorted buttons. Many of them were broken and all were worn and discolored.

“You want none of that dross, I assure you,” the merchant told him. “Come, look at these. Genuine pearl, from the shells of clams as big as carts. They grow in only one sheltered cove in the far and mysterious Northern Kingdom called the Rifnlatt, and cost a pretty penny to import, but for you sir, well, I like your look, so—”

Malden took a coin from his purse—a tuppence—and dragged it across the surface of the buttons, digging a narrow furrow through them. With two more sweeping curves and a couple more lines he sketched a simple drawing of a heart transfixed with a key.

The button seller stopped talking at once. He reached for the coin and took it from Malden's hand, in the process smoothing out the buttons and obliterating Malden's handiwork. “I'm up to date on my payments,” the merchant insisted. “Move on before someone sees us together.”

“He—you know of whom I speak—calls on your aid. You'll be rewarded.”

The button seller cast a suspicious glance at Croy, who was standing a ways off, trying to look inconspicuous and failing, utterly.

Malden sighed. “He's a mark,” he said, a half lie. “I'm running a game on him. But to pull it off I need a distraction. Did you see a woman come through here, wearing a velvet cloak, followed by a bravo with a barrow? If you saw her face you'll remember her, for it was painted from chin to hairline in vines and flowers.”

“Aye,” the button seller agreed. “I saw her.”

“I need the bravo out of the way so I can speak with that woman. The guard doesn't need to be distracted . . . permanently, just for a few minutes. Do you think you can help me?”

“For—For him,” the merchant said, meaning Cutbill, “I can.”

“My thanks. And his.” Malden wandered away from the stall, one hand reaching for a bolt of patterned damask hanging from the next stall over. Croy came running over to join him, and Malden cursed the knight silently. If he didn't need Croy to gain Cythera's favor he would never have come out with him like this.

“It's done,” Malden said, and no more.

“When? Where shall it occur?”

“Keep your eyes open,” Malden told him.

They moved through the crowd drawing as little attention as possible. Malden stopped at several stalls and even haggled for a moment with a seller of thread, though he had no intention of buying anything. Croy kept staring at the faces passing by, but there was no help for that. Malden made sure they stayed close to wherever Cythera went, but not too close. When the diversion came he was no more than ten yards away.

“Sir, please sir, my sister, she's gone mad with fever, and she's locked me out of our house. Sir, please, I need your help, I need your axe, milord, please, I need you to chop down our door.” It was the ribbon girl, though Malden barely recognized her. She had tucked her hair up inside a snood and turned her ragged kirtle inside out to show a different color. Such talent—Malden hoped Cutbill knew what a marvel he had in his employ, and what she was worth. “Sir, please, your help is most needed!”

Hazoth's retainer snarled and kicked at the girl but she was fast enough to avoid being struck. The tale she spun was obviously something she'd come up with on the spot, but the details didn't matter. The retainer shouted for her to leave off, and suddenly every eye in the market was turned in his direction.

It wasn't so much that the marketers were astounded that a grown man would shout at a girl like that, or threaten her with a naked blade. It was hardly likely they'd been moved by her impromptu tale of woe. But entertainment was where you found it in the Free City of Ness—and this looked like it could be diverting indeed.

Not for the first time Malden gave thanks for the prurience of his fellow citizens. Now that they were all distracted, he could move where he liked through the crowd, and no one would see him go. Better yet, they wouldn't see Croy. The big knight was simply impossible to make inconspicuous—unless people had something else to look at.

Most importantly of all, no one was looking at Cythera. She slipped between the shoulders of two burly men who were laughing at the sight of a toughened bravo beset by a street urchin. Instantly Cythera was swallowed up by the crowd.

“There,” Malden said, and pointed to a dark alley closest to where Cythera had disappeared. “Go. Now,” he said, and clouted Croy on the arm. The knight headed straight for the alley, and Malden worked his way through the crowd in the same direction, though not by such a direct route.

At the mouth of the alley he stopped and looked into its shadows. Cythera and Croy were already there, deep in conversation. Malden took one last look out at the market. The ribbon girl had managed to pull a length of poplin from a bolt and was weaving it through the bravo's legs. She did it so deftly it looked like she'd pulled the cloth by accident, caught it with her flailing hands. Anyone lacking Malden's trained eye would have no idea what she was doing or what fruit it was about to bear.

Hazoth's retainer lifted one mailed hand to swat the girl away but she was already gone—along with his purse. He must have realized that as soon as he returned his hand to his belt, because he cried out that he'd been robbed. He tried to give chase but was tangled in the poplin and fell flat on his face. The owner of the bolt of poplin came storming out of his booth to berate the fallen retainer, and the crowd laughed riotously at this spontaneous farce.

Perfect. Malden reminded himself to ask for the girl's name. She was born to the game, he could tell.

“—solve all our problems with one stroke,” Croy was saying, his voice rising in volume. Malden came rushing toward the knight to shut him up. “And it will only cost—”

Cythera did Malden's work for him by interrupting.

“Last night he had her arm broken,” she said, speaking over Croy's words. Her voice was ice hanging in the air.

The effect on Croy could not have been more profound if she'd slapped him across the face. “What? I don't understand,” he said. He looked like a whipped dog.

“Did you think Hazoth would not hear of your antic at the palace?” Cythera demanded. “Calling on Vry to storm his home. Such a fool! I cannot believe I ever pinned hopes on your star, Croy.” She turned away from the knight in disgust. “Hazoth knows about our connection, of course. He believes I set you to this reckless end. I could not convince him otherwise, and when I refused to confess, he sent two of his men with a bar and a piece of rope. They tied her arm double, and then twisted the rope with the bar until I heard the bone snap.”

A tear ran down the garden of painted lilies that decorated Cythera's cheek.

“I meant only to—”

“I know what you meant to do! How much do good intentions mean in your world, Croy? In this storybook place you inhabit, where brave knights ride to the rescue of poor helpless women, is there glory in merely wanting to do good? Because in my world—and his,” she said, jabbing a finger toward Malden, “what's in your heart means
nothing
. Not when all your best hopes and desires only make things worse.”

Malden watched the two of them closely. Croy was like one thunderstruck, unable to speak or move. Cythera was so wracked with care that her skin was ashen under the vines and flowers on her face.

There was no time for this.

“Milady,” he said, “we have moments only before your watchdog comes sniffing for you. Think me not heartless.”

“No, Malden, I know you care,” she said. She took a cloth from her sleeve and dabbed at the tears on her face, though with such gentle and hesitant motions she barely mopped up any of them. “What say you?”

“I am taking an enormous risk by trusting you. I have no way of knowing you will not repeat to Hazoth everything I say. Yet I have no choice but to ask your help. I seek to get the crown back. Once it is in my hands, Anselm Vry will have no choice but to arrest Hazoth, and likely execute him. Your mother will be freed, and you with her. Croy will be so beloved by the Burgrave that his banishment will be lifted, and with it the noose that belongs around his neck.”

“And you, Malden? What will you gain? Can I afford your services?”

“I get my heart's desire,” he said. He lowered his eyes. “But you need not pay that price. Meet with us tonight if you can. I have a room in the Stink.” He described the street where he lived and how to reach it from Parkwall.

“Very well,” she said. “At midnight, Hazoth will retire to his bedchamber and be occupied there until dawn. I'll come then.”

“My thanks,” Malden said. He watched her head back into the square, never once looking back. “Croy—we have to go now. There is no more time.”

The knight didn't move. “Her arm?” he asked, his voice very small.

“Come! Or be damned,” Malden hissed. “I only needed you to make contact with her. Get yourself killed now, if that's how you'll find your glory. But if you would aid me—if you would aid Cythera further—come. Now.”

Eventually, Croy followed where Malden led.