Den of Thieves (31 page)

Chapter Sixty-Three

“B
ut . . . why?” Malden asked. He thought of the mural of the succubus in the House of Sighs, and he supposed he could see why a man would find that attractive. Yet he was reasonably certain that mural had not been painted from life. And even if it was, it seemed Hazoth's intent was not to take pleasure from his succubi, but a wholly different end. “Why would anyone . . . want to . . . Why?”

“You wonder what would make a man desire a demon child. You wonder why any human being could compass such a thing. You forget that Hazoth does not think of himself as a human being. He does not consider himself bound by conventional ethics.”

“I got that when I met him,” Malden agreed.

“A sorcerer like Hazoth lives only for power. He cares not for gold, or love, or any of the things that entice normal men. He wants to expand the scope of his knowledge, and to possess power that others cannot match. He's already capable of things beyond your imagining. Yet for a very long time he's felt like a prisoner.”

“Truly? But who could possibly compel him?”

“The Burgrave. And the king. There is a law against what Hazoth does, Malden. There is a penalty, if he's caught, and it's burning at the stake. Everything he does in the average day is probably illegal according to the laws of this land.” She looked over into the corner of the room, where Ghostcutter leaned against one wall. “The Ancient Blades exist to enforce that law.”

“Croy told me Hazoth lives in Ness because the Burgrave's ancestor granted him a sort of safe haven here,” Malden pointed out.

“Exactly. Now he's trapped here. If Hazoth left Ness he would be under constant suspicion. Croy and his brother knights keep a constant watch on any sorcerer who looks powerful enough to draw a demon up from the pit. They are never allowed a moment's rest until they prove they are faithful to the law. Hazoth couldn't live under that kind of watchful gaze. Eventually he would be caught summoning a demon or doing something else so infernal he would be arrested for it. He would be given a trial, but his sort are never very good at defending themselves in a court of law. He would be found guilty and sentenced to death. After so many centuries of life, to be caught by petty reeves and burned at the stake by peasants would seem utter injustice to him.”

“Yet why would he want to travel abroad when here, in Ness, he could live forever and be unmolested?” Malden asked.

“Can you imagine what it is like, to be called a free man, but only if you agree never to leave a certain place? Can you imagine the irony in that freedom, which requires you to remain always inside what must feel like a prison cell?”

Malden pursed his lips. He could imagine that exactly. He remembered when Cutbill had described his own situation in just the same terms. He had never wanted to feel sympathy for Hazoth. Nor did he now—at least not much—but he had to admit he could see Hazoth's motivations.

“Once his demon child is born, it will protect him from such a fate. He can go where he pleases—do what mischief he pleases—and none can stop him.”

Malden stroked his chin. “Croy told me something else as well. About demons. How they're unnatural, and how they distort reality around them. How their power will eventually wreck the world if they're not stopped. There was one in the Burgrave's tower that would have choked the world if it wasn't checked.”

“This one is much the same, though its dangers are less obvious,” Cythera agreed. “Hazoth knows the risk he's running. He just doesn't care.”

“That is troubling,” Malden said.

“I meant it to be.”

“For right now, though . . . it's also immaterial. You say that once the demon is born it will hound me to my death. Well, that just adds one step to my plan. I'll have to make sure Hazoth never becomes aware of my presence in his house—so he can't birth the demon.”

“That'll be a nice bit o' work,” Kemper said, “if'n ye can pull it off.”

Malden shrugged. He hadn't expected this to be easy. He honestly did not expect to survive the job. Yet that thought was unworthy of being dwelt upon. He had a chance, a beggar's chance, to make this work. That was all he would allow himself to think. “It's better that way, at any rate. Even without the demon Hazoth is perfectly capable of destroying me. This changes nothing.”

“There are other concerns as well,” Cythera said. She stared deeply into Malden's eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke. What was she looking for? he wondered. For conviction, for self-confidence?

Eventually she closed her eyes. The downward-drooping petals of painted cyclamen blooms made her eyelids white as paper. The flowers began to wilt before she opened her eyes again. “There are the traps, in this hallway.”

Malden looked down at the map. “Kemper discovered them, though he couldn't discern their nature. We were hoping you might tell us what they were, and thus allow me to take measures to circumvent them.”

“That hope is forlorn,” she said. “I have lived in that house most my life, but never have I walked down that hallway. Hazoth doesn't use it himself. When he goes to his sanctum—and on those occasions when he takes me there—he transports himself directly without passing through the intervening space. The hallway is a ruse, meant to confound thieves. The traps, I know, are very real, and quite deadly. They can be disarmed by a simple mechanism inside the sanctum. There is a candle always burning there. To deactivate the traps it must be snuffed. But of course, you need to be inside the sanctum to do so. As I have no access to that room, I cannot do that for you.”

Malden nodded. “I expected to have to weather the traps myself. I have proven already—in the palace—that I can master such.”

“Indeed. Well, that leaves only two layers of defense we have not discussed. There is the magical barrier that surrounds the house and prevents anyone from entering until they have been passed by the sentries.”

“But that's where you come in,” Malden said. “You'll lower it for us, when the time comes.”

Cythera shook her head. “Had you come to me two days ago that might have been possible. Before Croy made a public spectacle of his desire to slay Hazoth.”

On the bed, the knight turned his head away.

“Hazoth,” Cythera told Malden, “knows I am connected to Croy. When he heard what happened up on Castle Hill, and what Croy said to Anselm Vry, he took the natural step of ensuring I could no longer lower the barrier. It is done with a certain hand gesture. The gesture can be anything—a sign drawn in the air with one finger, a clap of the hands, it doesn't matter. But you must know it to pass the invisible wall. Hazoth changed the signal and didn't tell me what the new pass sign is.”

Malden's heart sunk. “But you escaped tonight.”

“The captain of the guards knows the new sign. I was able to convince him to perform it for me—but only when I was not looking. I had to lie to him to get him to do it. I told him that Hazoth required some special incense for a ritual, and that it could not wait until morning. Such a thing has happened before, and the captain believed me. It is not an excuse I can use twice, however. The next time I try, he will become suspicious, and he will ask Hazoth if what I say is true. That would defeat your purpose, I think.”

“It would.”

Cythera scratched very delicately at one eyebrow. “You will need to give them a reason to lower the barrier.”

“I'll find one. Is that all, or have you more bad news for me?”

Cythera smiled without humor. “Only one more item. As I mentioned, Hazoth expects Croy to attack him. He does not fear Croy overmuch—he knows that Croy is more full of bluster than bravado.”

The knight cringed on the bed but said nothing.

Cythera glanced his way, then went on. “However, he is taking no chances. If one Ancient Blade is opposed to him, he will align himself with another. Tomorrow I am ordered to go out and find Bikker, and bring him to an audience with Hazoth.”

Malden cursed under his breath. “I thought you said Bikker doesn't work for Hazoth.”

“He doesn't. I don't know who Bikker's master is, actually. I only know Bikker will definitely come when I call him.”

“I don't understand,” Malden said.

“Stealing the crown in the first place was Bikker's idea. Or rather, it was the notion of he who pays Bikker's wage. Bikker first came to the villa a month ago. He said he represented a wealthy patron who wished to contract for Hazoth's services. Hazoth cannot be bought with coin, but there are things in this world he covets. One is his privacy. The king would have him burnt at the stake should he ever learn the experiments Hazoth performs in his sanctum. So when Bikker proposed this scheme, Hazoth listened, for Bikker's employer promised him no one would ever learn what he was about. Whomever it may be—I have never met the man, nor learned anything of him—he convinced Hazoth he could offer his protection in exchange for Hazoth's part in the plot. It was Bikker's employer who decided a thief would be found to steal the crown—you know that much, of course—and then Hazoth would be employed to keep it in hiding. There really is no safer place for it in the Free City. The spells on the house prevent any spy from seeing it, and also any diviner from locating it with magic.”

Malden thought of Anselm Vry's hedge wizard, and his shewstone. It had, as she said, not been able to locate the crown.

“It would take a small army to besiege the house, and a more powerful sorcerer than Hazoth—if any exist—to breach the barrier. If you wanted something of exceptional value to be kept safe, Hazoth's sanctum is exactly what you'd need.”

“Interesting. I thought Hazoth wanted the crown to study it. Now I learn he is only an agent for some other player, who remains unknown. But what, exactly, do they hope to achieve? Bikker said no one would come looking for the crown. That the Burgrave would simply have a replica made, and forget the theft ever happened. We know that was not the case.” And Cutbill had told Anselm Vry that a replica crown would not suffice—but why not? There were so many questions Malden had no answers for, and imagined he never might. “What do they want to happen?”

“I am unclear on the specifics,” Cythera admitted. “I do know what they think will happen. The Burgrave will appear in public on Ladymas, without his crown. Somehow that will cause the people to riot. Bikker and his employer intend to turn that riot into a full-scale revolt. They mean to whip the people into a frenzy and cause them to overthrow the Burgrave.”

“But that would be madness!” Malden said. “The king would revoke the city's charter on the instant. He'd have to, just to restore order. And then every man in Ness would lose his freedom.”

“There are many who would benefit from that,” Cythera pointed out.

Malden scratched at his chin. His whole skin had begun to itch. He chafed under the yoke of his low birth already. Without the freedom granted by the city's charter, he would be no more master of his own destiny than a farmhand out in the countryside.

He would rather have been confined in the pit, tormented by demons night and day.

“The point of all this,” Cythera said, “is that Bikker's employer will not wish the crown to be stolen back. So Bikker will be there when you try. He will be leading Hazoth's guards.”

“That's a major problem,” Malden admitted. “My plan depended on the guards being sloppy and undisciplined.”

“Bikker won't allow that luxury. He'll command them personally.”

“And if he should discover me inside the house—”

“I don't know if you should be more afraid of the demon, of Hazoth himself, or of Bikker. Not one of them will let you live.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

“I
'm afraid I've been of little help, save to make you think this hopeless,” Cythera said, straightening the maps on Malden's table. “And now I must go. I do wish you luck—for my mother's sake, at the very least.”

“Not for my own?” Malden said. “Don't answer that. Get back safely. If Hazoth realizes what you've done, I can imagine you'll suffer, one way or another.”

“Yes,” she said. She frowned and looked over at the bed. She sighed deeply, but clearly there was something she had to say to her betrothed before she went. “Croy,” she said softly. “Croy, we must—”

The knight jumped to his feet and came over to stand quite close to her. “Cythera, how can I gain your forgiveness? I've caused you nothing but trouble. How can I make this up to you?”

“You owe me nothing, Croy. You made a promise—well, we both made promises, didn't we? But sometimes life gets in the way of promises.” She looked away from him. Malden could see how upset she was, but he didn't dare intrude.

Then something odd happened. She met Malden's eye. She looked into his eyes and for a second he thought she was pleading with him to say something. To jump in and save her from the hard thing she was contemplating.

As he had no idea what that might be, he could say nothing.

She sighed again and turned to face Croy.

“I don't want you to get killed,” she said to the knight. “And right now, if you try to fight Bikker, that is exactly what will happen. So I want you to tell me that you won't try. That you'll let Malden handle this alone.”

Alone? Malden thought. So it's all right if Bikker kills
me
?

“Milady,” Croy said, dropping to his knees so hard the floorboards creaked. “I would die a thousand times in your service—”

“But why? Why would I want that? It would accomplish nothing!”

“But I took a vow to save you and your mother—”

“You and I will have to talk when this is over. If any of us are still alive,” she said. “Oh, Croy, don't look at me like that.”

The knight dropped his gaze.

“Be of good cheer,” she told him. “I don't like seeing you like this. Anyway, perhaps things will work out. Maybe a thief can succeed where a knight failed.”

Malden glanced over at Kemper, and they both shook their heads. As much as Malden wished his own troubles gone, he would not have traded places with Croy at that moment.

“I didn't mean that to be cruel,” Cythera insisted. She tried to meet Croy's eye but he wouldn't look up at her. “I have not forgotten all you've done for me,” she told him. “But you must realize—my mother's safety, and my freedom, mean everything to me.”

“And to me,” Croy said.

“Then you must free me,” she said.

“But that's exactly what I—that is, what Malden and I are trying to do,” Croy pointed out.

“An' me, son, don't forget I'm riskin' my neck, too,” Kemper insisted.

“And Kemper, too, of course. We're all trying to free you,” Croy said.

“No, not from that . . . you infuriating man!” Cythera moved toward the door. “Croy—please. Let me go.”

He did look up at her then, with utter confusion on his face. “I would never dream of delaying you.”

“Then forgive me already and let me be at peace,” she said.

“Forgive you . . . but for what?” Croy asked.

Cythera's face creased in grief. “You don't understand. I can't make you understand. Just tell me you forgive me. Even if you don't know why.”

“Of course, then, I forgive you. I forgive you all—there is never anything you could do I would not forgive and forget, on the instant . . .” The knight's voice trailed off. Maybe he was starting to get the point after all.

“I go,” Cythera said. “Goodbye. Malden, I'll try and come to see you again the day you make your move. If anything changes before then I'll make sure you know it. I'll have to come to you during the day, when I do my marketing.”

“I'll be ready,” Malden told her.

Cythera left then. The three men watched her head up the lane toward Turnhill Bridge, which would eventually lead her down to Parkwall. When she was out of sight Croy walked over to the table and slammed it with his fist.

“What did she mean by that? Why would she ask for my forgiveness? What has she ever done to harm me?”

Malden bit his lip and went to sit on the bed. It was late and he just wanted to go to sleep.

“Lad,” Kemper said to Croy, sounding sympathetic, “ye've not much experience with women, have ye? I don't mean with yer mother or sisters either. Ye don't seem the type fer whorin', but have ye e'er swived one?” He took his cards from inside his tunic and started shuffling them, rubbing each one with his thumb.

“I've spent most of my life learning how to swing a sword properly. She's not the only woman I've ever . . . cared for, if that's what you mean. There was the dwarf king's daughter. I was her protector, and saved her from a fate worse than death. In reward, she allowed me a single kiss.”

Malden couldn't resist asking the question he knew was probably foremost in Kemper's mind as well. “Did she have a beard?”

Croy's face went dark. “No. No, she did not. A bit of a mustache, perhaps. But no more than you'll see on many a human woman's face. And I'll have you know,” he insisted, when he saw the two thieves were laughing behind their hands, “she would have given me her body, had I asked. But I had my oath to Cythera to consider.”

“Methinks that's not a concern now,” Kemper said. He riffled his cards absentmindedly. “Mayhap ye should go back to yer dwarven princess.”

“Speak plainly, damn you,” Croy shouted. He was bright red.

“He's saying that Cythera was asking your forgiveness for breaking off her betrothal to you,” Malden said.

“She . . . she . . .”

“She didn't want to say it in so many words, because she was afraid of your reaction. She was hoping you would just understand.” Malden stared at Kemper. Why did the card sharp have to spell it out for Croy? Now the fool knight would probably spend another day lying abed and staring at the ceiling. Malden supposed if you were rich enough you could afford to be moody. “Enough,” he said. “Enough. I'm going to bed. Tomorrow morning I'll need to make a whole new plan. And you,” he said, rushing over to Kemper, “quit shuffling those damned cards.”

“Here now, boy—”

Malden grabbed the cards out of Kemper's intangible hands and shoved them in his own tunic. “I can't think when you're doing that. Now, to bed, all of us.”

He doused the lamp and pulled off his tunic, then got into bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He did not, however, get to sleep much that night. Croy made too great a racket with his sobbing tears, and Kemper kept grumbling about his cards.

Enough, enough, enough, Malden thought to himself. Kemper was largely safe from harm, no matter what came. And Croy would be nowhere near the villa when he broke into it. The knight would be useless in any scheme he could imagine.

It was up to him to get the crown back. He could put together a crew but he couldn't truly count on them. He would have to pass the barrier, get through the hallway of traps, and retrieve the crown, all without being detected. He would then need to do that which might be harder, which was to escape with his skin intact.

Even then his troubles might only begin anew. Anselm Vry might be watching him at that very moment, waiting until he recovered the crown before swooping in and taking all credit for himself. Cutbill might have him killed regardless of what happened, just for causing so much trouble in the first place.

And Hazoth would still have his demon, and Bikker would still have his acid-drooling sword. And both of them would have reason to want him dead.

The problems seemed insoluble.

Well, they always had. He had to keep going.

He had to think of something.

Eventually Malden did sleep, despite the companions of his bedchamber. He sank deep and came back only when the first rays of dawn burst in through the gap between the shutters and the window. He opened his eyes, checked that his bodkin was under his pillow where he left it, and only then sat up.

“Good morning,” Croy said, smiling down at him.

The knight had never looked happier.

“Hmm,” Malden said. He rose and pulled on his tunic, slipped his bodkin into its sheath. Kemper was lying curled in one corner, snoring and farting, dead to the world. Croy, however, was fully dressed and looked like he'd just taken a bath. He had his shortsword out and was polishing it with a cloth.

Malden wondered if the man had gone mad during the night. Maybe Croy was going to kill himself. It was not something he wanted to witness. “You seem recovered from your cares,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, yes. Everything is better now,” Croy said.

“It is?”

“I had a dream, Malden.” He put the sword down and rose to his feet. “No. I tell a lie. It was a vision. I saw Cythera in her bridal veil. I saw myself standing before her, with flowers woven in my hair. And when I woke, I understood. Nothing is broken between us that cannot be repaired. She is merely testing me.”

“Is she, now?”

“Indeed. All the stories of knights and dragons and fair maidens go like this. The maiden refuses to accept the knight's troth until he slays the beast. He must prove himself, in combat, before she can truly love him.”

“In the stories, you say,” Malden went on.

“Yes. So my path is clear. I will earn her love. I will do this by killing Hazoth. A sorcerer is in many ways like a dragon, is he not? I will slay him. And maybe Bikker as well. And anyone else who opposes me.”

“Even though she asked you not to,” Malden pointed out.

“That,” Croy said, with a gleam of insight in his eye, “is the crux of the test. I will free Coruth. And only then will Cythera look on me with favor once more. What do you think?”

“I suppose,” Malden said, “that anything is possible.”