Den of Thieves (43 page)

Chapter Ninety-Two

A
minute earlier, outside:

Bikker took a step toward Croy's left, but did not advance.

Croy stood where he was. Ghostcutter's point tracked Bikker as he moved. Croy had lived with the sword so long it took no effort at all to keep it pointed at the bearded swordsman.

This would all be over in a moment.

One strike—and Acidtongue would carve Croy like a chicken. The vitriol on its blade would sear through his flesh and he would be undone.

One thrust—and Ghostcutter would drive through Bikker's shirt of chain, pierce his vitals, and leave him gasping in his own blood. Assuming Croy had enough strength left to complete the stroke.

“Are you ready?” Bikker asked.

“There is no such thing as readiness,” Croy said. “One fights, and lives, or one prepares, and one dies. You taught me that.”

“Do you regret it has come to this?” Bikker asked.

“Yes.”

Bikker sighed. “As do I, to be honest. Shall we count to three, and then strike?”

“One,” Croy said.

“Two,” Bikker responded.

“Three,” they said together.

Acidtongue whirled through the air, coming down hard and fast from Croy's left, his weak side. Croy tried to lean out of the way but knew he wouldn't be fast enough. Ghostcutter shifted in his hand and came upward to parry. The two blades met with an awful grinding, sizzling noise. Acid bit into Ghostcutter's silver edge and notched the iron underneath. Bikker pushed forward suddenly and Croy went sprawling, his left hand out to catch him as he fell.

Not enough, not nearly enough—Croy had wasted his one cut—it was the end—in a moment Bikker would remise, following through on the stroke Croy had parried, bringing the blow home, and—

—Ghostcutter broke free of the engagement, ringing clear of Acidtongue. The acid had made the blades slick and unlocked them. Croy turned at the waist as he fell, trying to catch himself before he fell on his back, and Ghostcutter whistled through the air in a tight arc. Croy used every bit of control he had over the weapon and brought it low and inside Bikker's guard. Busy gaining leverage for his remise, Bikker had his arms up, and that left his side unprotected.

Ghostcutter was a heavy blade. Its own momentum sliced through the chain-mail shirt over Bikker's hip and deep into the flesh beneath. It didn't stop until it had sliced halfway through Bikker's spine.

Bikker gasped and took a step backward, and Ghostcutter came free of his midsection as easily as it was pulled from its own scabbard.

“Sadu take you,” Bikker shouted, and lifted Acidtongue again for another stroke. He lunged forward, but before he was halfway to Croy he stumbled and blood came vomiting out of his mouth.

Acidtongue dropped to the grass. It was dry by the time it landed—it secreted vitriol only when held by a strong arm. Bikker dropped to his knees beside it and then fell face forward into the earth.

Croy crawled toward his old teacher and rolled the man over on his back. Bikker's face was congested with blood and his eyes weren't focusing. His mouth moved but the words that came out were inaudible whispers. Croy bent his ear over Bikker's lips to hear what he said.

“When you find an heir for my sword,” Bikker told him, his voice no louder than the breeze that ruffled the grass, “teach him that stroke. It's a good one.”

Croy closed his friend's eyelids, and wept.

He was not given time to grieve, however.

The grass was blown back by a flash of light more bright than the sun at midday. Hazoth and Cythera were suddenly standing over him. He looked up into her eyes but didn't like what he saw there.

She might have spoken—but just then, behind Croy, the villa fell in on itself with a mammoth crash.

Chapter Ninety-Three

“C
roy! Croy!” Malden called, racing around the side of the house where the debris was not so thick. He jumped onto a fallen rafter beam and leapt into a drift of plaster dust that billowed up around him like a cloud. He managed to sidestep a pile of broken glass but still came down hard on a plank of wood that shifted under him and sent him sprawling forward.

Behind him the demon's skull heads bit at the air. It was almost upon him.

“Croy! Kill it!” he screamed as he came around to the front of the house, where the rose window had fallen in a million shards of colored glass.

He took in the scene in an instant, though he liked little of it. Bikker looked dead, which was a good thing, and Croy was still holding his sword. The knight was sitting down in the grass, however, with his knees up to his chest, and he looked as pale as a sheet. Had the two fools killed each other?

Cythera and Hazoth were there, too. Both of them were staring at the pile of rubble that had been their home. They seemed too paralyzed by surprise to react.

“Demon!” Malden shouted, his feet slapping against the grass. “Croy!”

He raced up to the knight and then jumped over Croy's head. The demon was right behind him, snatching at his heels with one clawed foot.

Ghostcutter was pointed at the sky, suddenly. Croy did not rise, or call out a threat, or even shift from where he sat, but his sword pointed upward. The demon couldn't see it, having no eyes, and as the blade bit into its belly, at first it seemed not even to notice.

Then the cold iron blade pierced it through, and the point came out through the demon's back. It fell on Croy hard enough to crush any man, and scratched at the ground with every one of its mismatched legs, but it couldn't seem to get free.

Cythera shouted for Croy, but the knight was completely covered by the demon's body. If he heard her, he could make no reply.

“Malden, he was already gravely wounded—if we don't get him out of there soon he'll smother,” she said, beseeching the thief.

Malden started to shrug. What could he do? His bodkin was useless against the thing. He was no Ancient Blade to fight a demon. But then—

He saw Acidtongue on the ground next to Bikker's body. Like Ghostcutter, it was made for fighting demons. Malden grabbed it and found that he could barely lift it. He'd never used a sword in his life and realized instantly that it wasn't just a matter of swinging it around like a stick.

But then drops of vitriol appeared along the blade's length like sweat. Grabbing the hilt with both hands, Malden rushed toward the demon, holding the sword straight out from his body. He jabbed it into the demon's back and leaned on the pommel until it sank deep into the demon's vitals.

The skull heads reared up and screamed at the stars as the demon redoubled its thrashing. Malden let go of the sword's hilt then and staggered back, trying to get clear of its flailing legs.

Eventually it died, and lay still. Its flesh fumed and liquefied until its bones stuck up through its raw musculature. Its claws curled and withered like paper in a fire. Soon it was no more than wisps of foul-smelling smoke and a pool of vile liquid. Underneath its remains, Croy struggled to pull Ghostcutter free of the infernal thing's rib cage.

Malden stared at the beast in utter incomprehension. He couldn't believe what he had just done. He had killed a demon. He—the puny thief, who had never even cut a human being before—had killed. Of course, it had been pinned and immobile, and— But he had killed it—

Malden started to whoop in joy. But then an invisible hand grasped his heart and began to squeeze.

“My son . . . my house,” Hazoth said. “You destroyed my house.”

Malden dropped to the ground, unable to move a muscle. The sorcerer leaned over him.

“I was going to allow you a quick death, rodent,” the sorcerer said. “No more.”

Chapter Ninety-Four

M
alden rolled on the ground, his body coming to pieces from the inside out. Pain gripped him like iron tongs as Hazoth twisted one hand in the air, and his guts tied themselves in knots. He could barely see anything—his vision had turned the bright red of arterial blood.

Then it cleared, just enough for him to look up into Hazoth's face. “I want you to see me while you suffer,” the sorcerer told him. “I want you to feel everything. The pain I'm about to inflict on you would normally drive a rodent unconscious. It might even kill one outright. Your primitive brain would rather die than live through this agony. But I won't let it. You are going to suffer for what you've done to me. And I know more than anyone about what suffering means.”

Malden gasped for breath, but every ounce of air he inhaled felt like he was swallowing knives. His arms curled around his chest, constricted by pain, but still he could see the magician staring down into his eyes.

So he could see it very clearly when a red blotch appeared on Hazoth's cheek and burst through the skin as an ugly boil.

It was such a surprise he almost forgot the pain. Almost.

“Your spells are . . . slipping,” he wheezed.

“You know nothing of magic. Save your breath for the screams you are about to utter,” Hazoth told him.

Yet even as the wizard spoke, pimples erupted near his hairline. Hazoth reached up to feel the bumpy skin there and something miraculous happened.

The expression on his face changed. He started to show real fear. He even cried out as one of his eyes grew thick with cataracts.

On the ground, Malden wanted to laugh. He wanted to crow for joy. The pain he'd felt disappeared as Hazoth reared back and clutched at his ear, which had begun to drip blood. “What is this?” Hazoth demanded. He turned to stare at Cythera.

“The link between us is fading, Father,” she said. The vines and flowers on her face writhed and bloomed wildly. “He did it. The thief did it—Coruth must be free. When the house came down it must have broken your magic circle. She has undone the connection she once made between you and I.” Cythera looked like she could hardly believe it herself. As if she didn't dare believe what was happening.

But it was real. The curses Hazoth had avoided so long, the inimical magics cast on him by the demons of the pit in revenge for all he'd done to them, were getting through. Instead of being deposited on Cythera's skin as painted flowers, they were appearing on his own skin as blossoms of blood and corruption.

“Damn that woman,” Hazoth said, his voice thick with phlegm. He shook himself and spoke a few words in some ancient language. Instantly, the sores on his face stopped weeping and closed again, until his countenance was as unblemished as before. “She's weak, though. Too weak to resist. I'll find her and prison her again.”

“No, I don't think you will,” Cythera said.

Then she grabbed him by the arms and mashed her lips against his cheek in a brutal kiss. “Farewell, Father.”

Hazoth's eyes went wide. Green sparks lit up his hair and his chest.

On Cythera's left hand an oleander flower curled up and withered. A vine retracted around her wrist, shrinking back on itself.

“Malden,” Cythera said, quite calmly, “you should go now.”

The thief scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him he heard Hazoth start to scream as the skin of his back split open and demonic arms reached out to grasp at him with shredding claws.

Every curse Cythera had stored on her skin for decades came loose at once, and they lashed out at Hazoth with interest. As the magician's protective spells came apart, the demons he had exploited and enslaved sensed the release down in the pit, and sought every crack and crevice in the universe through which they could reach his side, intent on having their vengeance before the curses could undo Hazoth entirely. The people who lived on Ladypark Common closed their shutters and hid under their beds, but could not escape for the next three hours the screams of a dying sorcerer and the bellowing rage of the Bloodgod's children, denied this prize for so long. They took their time destroying Hazoth. They savored it.

Chapter Ninety-Five

W
itchly light filled the sky over the common, and the gruesome sounds of Hazoth's demise made the air shiver. Malden did not look back over his shoulder, as much as he might have enjoyed watching Hazoth meet his sticky end. He had places to go yet tonight, things to achieve, or all could still be lost.

He could see his path easily in the weird illumination as he broke for the streets beyond the common, intending to lose himself in that maze and make good his escape.

He was not to be so lucky.

Ahead of him on the Cripplegate Road, a score of men in cloaks-of-eyes were waiting with weapons in hand. They moved quickly to cut off any avenue of escape, circling around him should he even think to return to the ruined villa. When Malden was completely surrounded, one of them came forward and held out an empty hand. “Give it over, thief,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Malden tried.

“We know you've got a dagger at your belt. Give it over or I'll run you through and take it from you.”

Malden stared at the man with pure hatred. But there was nothing he could do. He drew the bodkin from his belt and handed it over. “I'll want that back, now.”

With a chuckle, the watchman tossed the knife over the wall of the Ladypark.

Malden's heart sank. The message was clear. He wasn't going to need the knife anymore. He would not be given another chance to use it.

The rank of watchmen parted and someone came through the gap. Anselm Vry—with an expression of annoyance on his face.

“You really couldn't do it with less fuss?” he asked.

Malden blinked in feigned incomprehension. “Do what, milord? I was only walking on the common, something I often do at night. I find it calms my mind. I'm not sure what's going on over there,” he said, pointing at the green fire dancing on the other side of the common, “but I think you should definitely go investigate.”

Vry sneered at him. “What's that on your belt, then?” he asked.

Malden patted his belt as if he couldn't guess what the bailiff meant. Then he said, “Oh!” and unbuckled his belt to remove it. “You mean this.” The belt had been threaded through the golden crown he'd hidden under his cloak. He handed it over to Vry, who snatched it away from him.

The bailiff closed his eyes and held the crown up in both hands. His eyes snapped open for a moment and he stared at Malden, but then looked away and nodded. “Yes, of course, milord,” he said, as if talking to the crown, not to Malden. “You,” he said, to one of his watchmen. “The bag.” A velvet sack was brought forth and the crown placed carefully inside. “Very good, thief,” Vry said.

Malden bowed low. “So, may I inquire if there is a reward? I prefer it in gold, but will take silver if I must.”

“I'll count it out in steel,” Vry said with a short, nasty laugh. “You—kill him. Then form a detail and carry his body to the Skrait. Make sure you weigh it down so no one ever finds it.”

A watchman with a halberd came lunging forward, but Malden had expected this and was already moving. He scurried up the wall of the Ladypark and dropped into a stand of bushes on the far side. There, he lay still and held his breath.

A half dozen faces appeared over the top of the wall, including Vry's. They peered into the darkness for a long minute before withdrawing.

“It makes no difference. Let panthers and wolves fight over him now,” Vry said. “If he lives through the night, we'll just find him in the morning.”

And with that they left.

Malden stayed still for a while longer, and then, when he was sure no one was watching, he got up and started looking for his bodkin.