Den of thieves

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Earlier-just at dawn-Gurrh the ogre had brought the leaden coffer to Swampwall, his home for so many years. He laid it down in the soft soil and then started bashing at it with his massive, hairy fists.

Eventually it came open. The true crown was inside, just as expected.

Malden had been there to see it emerge. Coruth the witch flew him through the air so he would not be late. He thanked Gurrh, who bowed deeply and then returned to his pipe. Then Malden approached the crown, his hands shaking it a little. He lifted it carefully and heard its voice begin to command him. Before he could be overcome, before it could make him put it on his own head, he shoved it into a burlap sack and slung it over his shoulder. Still, it continued to speak to him, made imprecations and promises and outright threats-until Malden explained to it what he had planned. Then at last, thankfully, the crown became quiet.

Later, when Malden drew the false crown to the dome of the chapel with Slag’s fishing pole, it was a simple matter to switch it with the true crown-the crown he had lowered once more onto Ommen’s head.

The transformation in the Burgrave was instantaneous. Juring Tarness resumed his control of his imbecilic descendant, and heard everything that was said within the chapel.

“You would depose me, Anselm?” Juring asked then. He looked down at the bailiff. Standing straight, he was many inches taller than his servant. “You would go to such lengths to take what is mine?”

“Milord,” Vry said, bowing low. “This was a tale, only, a fabrication spun to appease the thief when-”

“No more lies,” the Burgrave shouted. The priests and watchmen around him all drew back. Juring drew a jeweled dagger from his belt. It was one of his symbols of office, mostly for ornament’s sake. The blade was kept sharp, though, to represent the keen insight the Burgrave brought to his office. “Kneel,” he said.

Vry turned to face his watchmen. “The Burgrave is ensorcelled!” he cried. “Seize him-we must perform an exorcism at once. You, high priest, fetch the appropriate vestments and the holy thurible and-”

“I said, kneel,” the Burgrave said again. Neither watchmen nor priests moved from where they stood.

Vry tried to run. The Burgrave grabbed the back of his cloak and pushed him to the ground. Then he grabbed the bailiff’s hair and pulled his head back. “No more lies,” he said again. Then he pried the man’s jaw open and cut out his tongue.

Anselm Vry gasped and choked on his own blood. The noises he made were horrible. Even Malden flinched.

“Now,” Juring Tarness said when it was done, “someone bring me a rag. I don’t want this traitor’s blood on my hands when I lead the joyous procession of Ladymas. You, watchman-take this fool away. Lock him in my dungeon. We’ll give him a trial and see how well he speaks in his defense now. Then we’ll find some way to execute him more horrible than any we’ve tried before. Maybe we’ll force him to eat his own entrails. To swallow his own excrement, as it were.”

The captain of the watchmen did as he was told, with a bow, a salute, and no words at all. The priests cleaned the Burgrave’s hands and wiped off his dagger. While it was done, the Burgrave looked up into the dome.

“As for you, thief. Go and tell your master Cutbill that I would speak with him. Eventually. I have a long day ahead of me.”

Malden supposed that it was too much to expect thanks. He climbed back out the window in the dome and hurried away across the rooftops of the Spires.