Den of thieves

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Curse you, leave off,” Malden whimpered. His strength was nearly gone. The joints in his arms and shoulders burned, and his legs had cramped where he used them to brace himself against the pull of the demon. He would not let go of the crown, but inch by inch, inexorably, the tentacle was pulling it closer to the debris of the tower room. Sweat poured down into Malden’s eyes but he didn’t dare wipe it away. He heaved backward with every muscle in his body but still gained no ground.

And then-he did. He was able to straighten out a fraction, to pull the crown closer to his body. The tentacle throbbed and started to whip back and forth. Its grip loosened and then the crown slithered free of its embrace.

Malden fell back, panting like a dog. He stared at the tentacle, expecting it to renew its grasp, but it did not. In fact, it flopped across the floor and did not move at all. As if the demon had perished, unseen by him, and could fight no more. Even as he watched, the thing began to melt.

He could hardly believe it. He stared at the crown in his hands. It had not stretched or bent at all in the struggle, though it was made of gold, one of the softest of metals. Its crenellations had dug deep gouges in his palms and fingers, and his blood slicked its surface. He longed to put it down, to tend to his cuts, but he dared not let it out of his hands, even for a moment. He couldn’t bear the thought.

Of course, he didn’t have to put it down, if he just set it on his head…

You have done well, thief, the crown said.

“Say no more, I beg of you,” Malden moaned. He thought how much he had risked for this prize. He could easily have been killed in that final moment before the tower fell-yet the voice had commanded him, and he obeyed. Now he knew it wanted more. It wanted him to put it on his own head.

Surely that was sacrilege. Wasn’t it? He was no Burgrave. He couldn’t legally wear it. If anyone saw him with it on, he would be arrested at once for impersonating a noble.

And yet… what sweet justice it would be, wouldn’t it? It was almost maddening, it was so appealing. For a common thief, the son of a whore, to wear even for a moment the coronet of temporal power.

Malden began to raise it toward his head.

The thing was magic. Who knew what powers it might have? Maybe it would grant him wishes. Maybe it would turn him instantly into a man of estate, of power. Such things were told of in stories, sometimes, such things were…

… were…

… too good to be true.

Malden lowered the crown again. He didn’t let it go. No, that would be too much to bear. But he forced down the urge to put it on.

He had a horrible presentiment-a certain hunch-that if he put the crown on his head, he would never willingly take it off again. And that would have presented more problems than it was likely to solve.

He felt the thing pulse in his hands, a little jolt of anger. He had thwarted its design and it wasn’t happy. Malden had to fight with himself to contain his natural impulse, which was to do anything, anything at all, to make the crown happy again.

If you will not wear me, then carry me to the castellan. He will see to my safety.

“Be still!” Malden said, though he felt like a field mouse issuing orders to a lion. The strength in that voice, the resolute, firm quality of it, was hard to resist. “I’ll do no such thing. I’m leaving now, and you shall accompany me.”

Find the castellan.

“He would have me slain on the spot.” Malden shook his head. He could feel the disdain radiating from the crown. It cared not a jot for his life or well-being. It only wanted its orders carried out. As far as the crown was concerned, he deserved whatever he got. Was he not, after all, a thief? And were not thieves hanged in this city?

An upright citizen, a more honest man, would never have disobeyed. Any such would have marched to their doom, just for the honor of serving the crown-or been seduced into putting it on, whatever horrors that might entail. Whatever intellect might inhabit it, it remained a symbol of ordained power, a representative of an iron-bound class system where every man knew his place. Even in the Free City of Ness men were born into a system of rank and from childhood had one lesson drummed into them: know your betters, and respect their wishes to the letter. Those who disobeyed faced beatings and upbraidings. Those who went along were left alone. Though the free citizens were proud people, they were not unlike the bondsmen outside the city walls in this regard-they knew better than to challenge power.

Yet Malden had never been a true citizen. He’d never been raised to be an honest man. His people were among the lowest of the low, and no one had ever cared to remind him of his rank because they assumed he would never rise above his station.

That expectation, or lack thereof, had given him ambition. And ambition bred will. Taking care, he removed one hand from the crown and flexed the fingers to get the blood flowing through them again. Then he placed the crown on the floor. Oh, that was hard, but once done, he felt so much better. He knew at once he’d made the right decision. He eased his other hand and wiped blood from his palm.

Then he began to consider, once again, how he was going to escape.

The hallway was blocked by the portcullis spears, and even if he could have fled through the palace, he would only arrive in the courtyard where doubtless every armed man on Castle Hill was waiting for him. The tower was collapsed and impassible. It seemed he had but one choice for egress, though he liked it not.

He could climb down the oubliette, the pit that nearly swallowed him before he reached the tower. He peered down into its inky depths now, and remembered what he had thought before-it could lead nowhere but into the Burgrave’s dungeons, some hundred feet straight down.

It was the only way out.

Jumping into that pit would be folly, of course-he would never survive the fall. He could attempt to climb down, but from what he could see of the shaft, its walls looked slick and free of easy handand footholds to facilitate such a descent. Fortunately he still had the rope he’d used to gain entrance to the palace, and Slag’s folding grapnel. The rope would be just long enough, if he could drop the last ten feet.

He wasted little time. No doubt guards were headed to the palace already, to check on the Burgrave and his retinue and make sure they had not been injured when the tower collapsed. At least some of those guards would be coming to check on the crown as well. The crown. Best to secure it now, so he wouldn’t lose it. He picked it up again.

Thief.

“Be still!” Malden hissed. He would not let it control him again. He would let no man be his master, ever again.

Well. Save for Cutbill. And Cythera and Bikker, of course. He scowled at himself, but wasted no more time on that line of thought.

He threaded his belt through the crown-touching it gingerly, as if it were like to burn him-then fastened it again about his waist so he would not drop it in the shaft. Then he wrapped his grapnel around one leg of the statue of Sadu-it had been badly dented in the cataclysm, but was still sound enough to hold his weight-and lowered himself foot by foot down into the pit, with only the vaguest notion what he would find at its bottom.