Honor Among Thieves (48 page)
C
roy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a cane, he could even walk. He pushed aside the hands of the Skilfinger nurse who had tended to him and stepped out of his tent. His head swam and black spots appeared in his peripheral vision, but he was determined not to stop now.
The Skilfinger camp was busy, always, with soldiers running here and there on errands, working on digging ditches and building palisades or simply practicing their drills. They were incredibly well disciplined and organized. Had Croy possessed a company of them when he met Mörgain in Greenmarsh he would have carried the day.
Unfortunately they were some two hundred miles from where they needed to be. Croy hobbled across a parade ground and up to the tent where Sir Hew and Bethane were in constant council. When he lifted the tent flap, eighteen inches of steel blade leapt out at his throat. He was just able to wobble backward and avoid being beheaded.
Hew said something in the tongue of Skilfing, and the guard withdrew his weapon without apology. Croy demanded none—the guard was only obeying his duty.
“You’re up and about,” Hew said, nodding in Croy’s direction. “Good. You can tell us the situation at Helstrow. Her Highness has been kind enough to tell us what she could, but of course she is untutored in military strategy. I mean no offense, my queen.”
Bethane was seated in a carved wooden chair at the back of the tent, wrapped in heavy quilts. “None taken,” she said. Then she jumped up and ran to throw her arms around Croy. “I thought you would perish, my champion.”
Croy did his best not to be knocked over by her embrace. “Your highness. There are matters of decorum and—”
“I don’t care. Without you, I would be dead right now,” Bethane told him. “And surely, I have a royal prerogative to touch any of my subjects I choose. Especially those wounded in my service. They tell me that my touch can cure scrofula, did you know that?”
“I’ve . . . heard as much,” Croy said. Personally, he’d never actually seen it happen. But it was one of the legends of the kings and queens of Skrae that they could cure a variety of diseases simply by personal contact. He shook his head, remembering the direct manner and plain speech of Ulfram V. Clearly the father had passed this trait on to his daughter. “Sir Hew, I need to speak with you at once.”
“Of course. We’re planning our next move. As an Ancient Blade, it is proper your voice should be heard,” Hew said, ushering Croy inside the tent. It was open and airy inside, and everything was washed with the colors of the painted canvas. A dozen Skilfinger knights stood with Hew around a table bearing a map of all Skrae. All of them were armored in shining steel, as if they expected an attack on the instant.
“I thought we might speak alone. These men are—mercenaries, is that correct?”
“It is. Ulfram V, Lady remember his name, was wise enough to send for them even before the barbarians arrived. The contracts are signed and the retainers paid. You can trust them. Anyway, none of them speak our language.”
Croy met the gaze of one of the knights. It was the same man who’d found him in the hills and brought him to Hew. “Very well. I have come to ask your help in the rescue of the Free City of Ness.”
Hew shook his head and bent over his map. “You have my regrets, but no. Ness is a lost cause. Eight thousand of the barbarians have surrounded the city and my latest reports tell me Ness will fall in a matter of days. No, we’ll be marching on Helstrow, and we leave tomorrow.”
Croy limped over and leaned on the table. “I must ask you to reconsider. If the horde takes Ness, they’ll control half the kingdom, and—”
“And if we take back Helstrow, and then Redweir, we’ll have the other half. The eastern half. We’ll be between them and any reinforcements they might call up from beyond the Whitewall.” Hew drew one finger down the length of the map. “If we control the river Strow, we’ll be well on our way to taking our land back.” He pounded on the table and looked up, into Croy’s eyes. “I know your sentiment is with Ness. It’s where you’ve lived so much of your life. But you must think like a general now.”
Croy closed his eyes for a moment. Hew was right. He could see that much from the map. He
knew
that much if he trusted his military instincts. Helstrow would be poorly defended, and Redweir would be garrisoned by only a skeleton crew of barbarians. Two easy victories that could turn the war around—turn certain defeat into sudden and almost bloodless success.
It didn’t matter. “If you allow the barbarians to have Ness, the suffering of the people there will be unthinkable,” Croy said. Cythera’s suffering will be . . . unbearable, he thought. It was possible she was already dead. No, he would not accept that. The Lady had spared his life so many times. Surely she would have just let him die if he was not meant to do this. To save Cythera.
If he followed Hew’s lead, and rode with him on Helstrow, they might win the eastern half of the kingdom before winter choked the land. But then it would be many months before they could even think of moving on Ness. Cythera would be alone, and defenseless, that whole time.
That was not acceptable.
“This is war, Croy. People suffer in time of war. Even people we love.”
Croy nodded. “I understand that. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I was there when Baron Easthull made the last stand against the barbarians, in Greenmarsh. I was on that field.”
It was an ungallant blow, to point out that while Sir Hew had been running for his life, Croy had been fighting for Skrae. But it could not be unsaid.
Hew pulled back the chain mail hood of his hauberk and the padded cloth gambeson underneath. He chafed at his ears as if they were burning. “I’ve given you a place on my council, Croy. Don’t mistake the bounds of that authority. Don’t forget your station.”
“I’m an Ancient Blade, same as you,” Croy said.
Another few words, another challenge to Hew’s supremacy here, and it could come to a duel. An Ancient Blade’s honor was his most valued possession, and Croy knew if he took this any further, he would be trampling all over Hew’s honor. He had been forced to kill Bikker, his teacher and the former bearer of Acidtongue, because of poorly chosen words. He had no desire to face Hew and Chillbrand just because he couldn’t accept the place he’d been given.
Yet he couldn’t back down. He’d fulfilled one sacred compact by getting Bethane to safety. Now he must continue with another. He thought of begging a horse and riding for Ness on his own, if he had to. Yet what would that accomplish? He would be slaughtered by the first band of barbarians he ran into. Dying that way would do Cythera’s memory honor, but it wouldn’t save her.
No. If he was to rescue her, he needed the Skilfinger mercenaries. He needed an army.
“You, my friend, are a knight errant. And I,” Sir Hew said, obviously choosing his words with great care, “am Captain of the King’s Guard.”
An insult—and a piece of logic. Hew was giving Croy one last chance. He could choose to take umbrage with being called a knight errant, and challenge Hew to a duel then and there. Or he could accept the fact that Hew outranked him, and be relegated to the status of a lieutenant. And lieutenants didn’t lay orders of battle.
Croy’s hand was already on Ghostcutter’s hilt. If he drew the sword even an inch from its scabbard, the choice would be made. He tightened his grip.
“What of the Queen’s Guard?” Bethane asked softly.
Hew and Croy turned as one to look at her. The Skilfingers, who could not know what was happening, looked at each other and shrugged. They filed out of the tent, clearly intending to let the knights of Skrae settle their own differences.
“Your Highness,” Hew said, his brow furrowing. “It was your father’s intention that I continue to serve in that post, as guardian of yourself and your crown.”
“My father is dead,” Bethane pointed out. “I can choose my own protector. And if I base that choice on who has more experience guarding my life, my choice is clear.”
Hew’s face darkened with anger, or perhaps fear. “My queen, I may be forced to remind you that you have not yet come of age.”
“That is true,” Bethane said. She didn’t look concerned.
“Until your eighteenth summer, when you attain your majority,” Hew said, very carefully, “you do not, in any official capacity, rule Skrae.”
“I know the law,” Bethane said. Her face did not change.
“And thus, I am truly sorry to tell you, you cannot abnegate my rank or my posting,” Hew finished, as if reciting the final element in a mathematical proof.
Bethane nodded agreeably. “All correct, Sir Hew. All quite correct. I cannot command you yet. However, is it not also true that in such a case, when the reigning monarch has not yet reached her majority, that the law requires the appointment of a regent? One of proper age and attainment who may rule in her name, and at her pleasure? I believe the law to be unclear as to who selects the regent. Traditionally it is the royal family, meeting in conference, who appoints to that role.”
Sir Hew said nothing. He could only swallow meekly and stare at the girl. At his queen. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing as Croy. That he had never seen better evidence for the royal blood in Bethane’s veins. She spoke not as a fourteen-year-old girl, but as a monarch. As a ruler.
“Seeing that I am the last surviving member of the royal family, at least as far as anyone knows—I find that I must appoint my own regent. So, Sir Hew, you remain Captain of the Queen’s Guard. And you, Sir Croy, may approach me and kneel.”
Croy did as he was told, though he nearly fell trying to get down on his knees.
“Be my voice, and my will, and in the Lady’s name, serve always Skrae,” Bethane said. “Do you swear to uphold the law and protect the people?”
“In the Lady’s name, I do,” Croy said.
“Then it is done. I give you all the powers of my crown, and all rights, ranks, privileges, and titles thereby appended, for the remainder of my minority. Lord Croy, please stand, and be regent of Skrae.”
Croy rose stiffly. He turned and faced Hew, careful not to let a mocking smile cross his lips. That would be ungallant to a fault. “Please advise your mercenary knights,” he said, keeping his tone formal, “that tomorrow we march for Ness, and the relief of the people there.”
Such a difference one pronouncement could make. For the next four years, Croy would rule Skrae, with every power of a king. As far as the law was concerned, he
was
now the king of Skrae.
He allowed Hew a moment to wrap his mind around that. Then he raised one eyebrow, because the knight had failed to respond. He stared Hew down until his old friend bowed stiffly from the waist, and rose again.
“As you command,” Sir Hew said, his face a wooden mask. “My liege.”
A
single trebuchet stone arced over the city that day. It landed on Castle Hill in the ruins of a building already smashed to pieces and did no harm except to scare a few people. The day before no stone had come. Since the attack on the walls was repulsed, the barbarians seemed to place far less trust in their siege engines.
It was enough to create an illusion of peace and safety. Malden was glad for it, even if he knew how false it really was. The barbarians hadn’t given up, not at all—they had simply moved their attention elsewhere. Slag had started work on his countertunnel, but also reported that the sappers moving under the wall were craftier than he’d expected. They had dug a sort of maze down there, full of dead-end passages and parallel tunnels they then filled up with refuse and tailings just to foil his attempt to find them. “Which means I know they’re there, and they know I know they’re there, and they know I know they know they’re fucking down there. They’ll put traps in the fake tunnels, just in case I think to break through on them in mid-dig. They’ll have armed guards in the real tunnel to make me sorry I found it.” The dwarf shook his head in dismay. “I haven’t given up yet, lad. But you better have a good backup plan, in case they beat me to the punch.”
“What about your secret project?” Malden asked.
“If it’s ready in time, aye, and if it actually works—mind, I make no promises—it’ll be good for one big fucking surprise. One. It won’t end anything, just buy us a little more time.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry. I know you were counting on me—”
“You’ve already been of better service than I could ask,” Malden told him. “We’ll survive this. I’m going to see Cutbill. He’s forgotten more dirty tricks than you or I will ever learn.”
“He is a sneaky bastard. I wonder, though, if you can trust him much more than you can trust those giant pillocks outside.”
“At this point every friend I have is precious,” Malden said. He left the dwarf’s reeking workshop and headed across the city toward the Chapterhouse. For once he took the streets, like an honest man. He wanted to make a point of showing himself to his people. If they saw him walking past their homes, safe and cheerful, it might help their morale.
He should have known better, though, because before he reached his destination, his own spirits were flagging. Everywhere he went he saw signs of religious mania. Every house now was decked with red ribbons, emblems of the blood sacrifice that Sadu demanded. Images of the eight-armed Bloodgod were being erected in every square and inside every close—most of them crude idols made of bits of wood nailed together and hung with weapons and animal teeth. More than once he passed by an old woman or a crippled man with nasty scars on their arms or hands, worn proudly to show they’d made their own private contribution to the war effort—by shedding their own blood.
When he reached Cutbill’s hidden office, he could only shake his head in grief. “The barbarians just have to hold out long enough for us to bleed ourselves dry,” he said.
Cutbill let him in without a word. He had a folded piece of parchment in his hand and he kept looking at it as he poured Malden a cup of wine. Then the ex-guildmaster of thieves sank down into one of his chairs and placed a hand on his forehead.
He seemed uninterested in talking about what bothered him. Malden had never seen Cutbill so agitated, and that unnerved him more than he liked to admit. He tried to shake Cutbill out of his melancholy by sharing some news.
“There’s been a change outside the walls—I can’t say what it is, but they’ve completely altered their strategy. Where before they seemed happy to starve us out, or crush us all with rocks, now they plan on bringing down the wall.”
“A change. Yes,” Cutbill said. He glanced down at his paper again.
“Something bad there?” Malden asked.
“A report from one of my spies,” Cutbill admitted. “Mörg is dead.”
“Mörg? The Great Chieftain? Why, that’s the best thing I’ve heard today!”
“Hardly.” Cutbill got up from his chair and started pacing. Eventually he threw the parchment on the fire and watched it burn.
“Hold a moment,” Malden said, because something had occurred to him. “You have spies among the barbarians? And you never told me?”
“Not spies. Call them contacts. I had one. Now I have none.”
Malden couldn’t believe it. “Mörg worked for you?”
Cutbill shook his head. “No, Malden. He was a friend. A . . . colleague. He never betrayed his people or gave me anything you should have known. Nor did I give anything away in my messages to him. We were simply two men who respected each other’s intellect. That’s all.”
Cutbill was the smartest man Malden had ever met. He found it hard to believe that a barbarian could be his equal in a match of brains. “You need to tell me everything now. In plain detail. I don’t like this.”
The ex-guildmaster sighed deeply, but then he nodded. “I’ve spoken before of how I built up my organization, but not of the time since then. When I had Ness under my control—half the public officials on my payroll, the other half terrified I would have them assassinated if they displeased me—I started wondering how to expand my horizons. I reached out to others like myself in other cities. Other criminals, first. The pirate queen of the Maw Archipelago, the Beggar Prophet of Ranmark, their like. At first they distrusted me, thinking I meant to supplant them. Eventually I convinced them we could aid each other from afar without competing. I sent my tendrils farther as well, looking for thinkers sympathetic to my own philosophies, even honest folk. I found many among the dwarves, for instance, and among the Learned Brotherhood, and the College of Deans at the great university of Vijn. Eventually I found Mörg. A more perfect mind I have rarely encountered. And so desperate to achieve something with his legacy! Something more than conquest and bloodshed. He wanted to make his people stronger, Malden.”
“Any stronger and they’ll be able to punch through the wall with their bare fists.”
Cutbill hissed in frustration. “He understood that the strength of a people is not in their arms or their steel. It’s in their ability to work together, and of each man to make the right choices for himself without a sword at his neck telling him what to do. In many ways the nation he built out of the clans is more sophisticated, more equable, than ours will ever be.”
Malden held his peace. He could tell Cutbill was grieving. A dozen jests rose to his tongue, but he kept them inside the cage of his teeth.
“Now that’s lost. The nation he wanted to create couldn’t survive his death—that was his great fear. That his children would not learn the lessons he wanted to teach. You’ve seen Mörget and Mörgain.”
“I . . . have,” Malden said.
“One of them will become the new Great Chieftain, it’s almost certain. The strange peace you’ve felt recently? This change in the bombardment? It will only last until they decide between themselves which it will be.”
Malden swallowed painfully. He was pretty sure he knew already who would win that contest. Mörgain was a formidable woman, but Mörget had the heart of a wounded lion. “And when it is decided?” he asked.
“Then they will come at you like a hammer toward an anvil. Both of them are smart enough to know they must demonstrate their power if they want to keep it. They will crush Ness no matter what the cost. I believe you have at most two more days of this quiet, Malden. You had better be ready when it ends.”
After that, Malden forgot what he’d come to talk to Cutbill about. He made an excuse—he was tired, he claimed, and needed to sleep—and took his leave. Once outside the hidden door of Cutbill’s lair, he leaned up against the cool stones of the Chapterhouse and tried to calm his raging thoughts. Eventually he could breathe again and his pulse stopped pounding in his temples. It was not the threat of a renewed attack that distressed him so, however, but one simple fact—
Cutbill had possessed a spy in the barbarian camp! And now that priceless resource was lost—without providing any useful information. Damn Cutbill for not telling him earlier! How much could they have learned? Now he would never even know the name of this lost informant.
He turned to go. It was only then he noticed the mangy dog that had curled up next to the door, as if waiting for his master to come home. Malden frowned at the animal, wondering what it was doing there—Cutbill had never showed any interest in dogs, not as far as he knew.
He stooped to pet the creature, mindful of fleas. The dog arched his back and panted happily at the touch. It felt good to be kind to someone—even a beast—that wouldn’t repay him with harsh words or dire imprecations.