Den of thieves

Part II

Interlude

Bikker made his own exit from Castle Hill, though in a less dramatic fashion than Croy or Malden. In the confusion following the death of the demon, he merely stepped into some shadows by the wall, then through a doorway into a well-lit room near the main gate. Inside, a servant was waiting for him. The withered old man offered to take his cloak-Bikker declined-then offered him a cup of hot mulled wine. This he took, draining the goblet in a single gulp. “Is he here?” Bikker asked.

The servant nodded without looking up. He was busy mending a torn tunic, pulling his bone needle through the old fabric then plunging it down again. The old man was the castle’s tailor, and he had a pile of clothes beside him, each item waiting his attention. “When things have calmed a bit, I’m to take you to the chapel. He’ll meet you there.”

Bikker eyed the tailor carefully. Was it possible this man was, in fact, his employer? He’d never seen the man who brought him into the cabal. It could be anyone in Ness, anyone with a compelling interest in bringing down the Burgrave. It wasn’t an ideal situation for one of Bikker’s talents, not knowing who he worked for. He was more accustomed to working for lords and merchants who insisted that he wear their personal livery. After all, what was the point in having a famous knight in your retinue if no one knew he was yours?

Still, Bikker supposed he could understand the need for secrecy. If anyone knew what the cabal was really meant to do, the jig would be up. The Burgrave would make short work of them all, probably hanging them in chains from the castle gates so everyone in Ness could see the wages of treason. Secrecy was paramount. Even Hazoth hadn’t been filled in on all the details, and Bikker was certain there were elements of the scheme he didn’t know about himself.

He shrugged and demanded another cup of wine. It didn’t matter to him what happened to the city. What mattered was that he be far away when it happened. Far enough away not to smell the blood or hear the screams.

When enough time had passed, the tailor handed him a cloak-of-eyes, the traditional garb of the city watch. For the first time, Bikker realized why the castle’s tailor would be a useful pawn of the cabal-uniforms and regalia of every kind came through the old man’s hands. Any number of disguises would be at his disposal. Bikker threw the too-small cloak over his shoulders and let the tailor lead him through the dim corridors of the chancery, the unassuming building where the city’s administrative work was carried out. They came through a dark refectory and then down a short passage that led to a chapel. A gilded cornucopia, symbol of the Lady, hung there above a modest altar. There were no pews, just a scattering of straw-filled cushions on the floor where supplicants could kneel. This was not a chapel for the use of the Burgrave and his family, but for the clerks and scribes of Anselm Vry’s ministries-commoners, if well-paid commoners.

With a thin smile, the tailor bid Bikker to kneel. Perhaps he thought it would be amusing to see the knight in an attitude of prayer.

For Bikker it was anything but diverting. There had been a time when he stood vigil in far ruder churches. He’d been a sworn vassal of the king once. A champion of virtue. He took his place on his knees, the muscles of his back locking obediently into place. There was a certain method one learned to kneeling all night, a way of staying upright even when your body demanded sleep. He resisted the urge to place Acidtongue before him, his hands folded neatly on the pommel. He would not mock what he had once been, no matter what Croy might think of him now.

Croy. Croy was here. Bikker’s skin itched at the thought. The foolish knight could cause all kinds of problems if he chose to poke his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Croy still considered himself one of the noble order of the Ancient Blades-which meant that whenever he discovered wrongdoing or malfeasance, he was honor-bound to root it out, uncover the criminals, and bring them to punishment. If Croy even guessed at the work of the cabal… but Bikker knew he could handle Sir Croy, if it came to that. He had trained Croy-had taught the younger knight everything he knew about holding a sword. But he hadn’t taught Croy everything he knew himself. Bikker still had a few tricks up his sleeve that Croy had never seen.

“It’s done,” a voice behind Bikker said, startling him. “The crown has left Castle Hill. Good.” Bikker did not turn to see who was speaking. His employer had been quite clear from the start that he did not wish his face to be seen. “Not as neatly as I’d hoped. But plenty of people saw the guardian demon before it was slain-that was to my liking. It will further humiliate Tarness.”

“If you like, I can ride tonight for Helstrow. There I can inform the king that the Burgrave of Ness has been harboring demons,” Bikker mused. He didn’t relish the prospect-he was not well-loved in the royal fortress just now. But it would further their aims, and it would get him far from Ness before things went to perdition.

“Not just now. We’ll hold that charge back as insurance. No, Ladymas is almost upon us. When Tarness appears in public without the crown, he’ll be unable to explain himself. If we’re lucky, the people will riot on their own, without further provocation. By manipulating their anger, we can inspire them to true revolt. The city will collapse under civil strife, and the king will have no choice but to intervene.”

Bikker frowned. He stared up at the cornucopia as he asked, “That’s the part I haven’t fully grasped. The Burgrave will look a fool if he appears without his crown, true enough. But he’s a man of formidable intellectual resources. Surely he’ll find some excuse and the people will believe it. They love him, after all.”

“They love him. They will not love what they see on Ladymas.” The voice seemed to find this highly amusing. “Trust me, Bikker. I’ve had years to plot this out. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure,” Bikker said. He wondered if he should tell his employer about Croy. But no. If the cabal thought Croy was a threat, they would take steps to slay the knight errant as a concerted front. Bikker didn’t want that. He wanted Croy all to himself. So he held his tongue.

“Now. You know what you must do next? What your role is now?”

“Aye, I’ll secure the crown. Get it to Hazoth’s villa where it can be hidden.”

“Exactly. Get the crown from the thief-pay him whatever he asks, it doesn’t matter.”

Bikker smiled. “Sure, since as soon as the crown is in my hands I can just kill the little fool and take the money back.”

“What? No, you mustn’t kill the thief. You’re already a wanted criminal after tonight’s endeavors. It’s still against the law in this city to kill a man, and I don’t want Anselm Vry’s watchmen to pick you up for such a minor infraction. Not while I still need you. No, just pay the thief and let him be.”

Bikker grunted in frustration. “This doesn’t sit well with me. The thief knows too much, and he’s hardly to be trusted. Leaving him alive is foolhardy.”

“Yes, I’m aware of it. Which is why Hazoth is going to kill him. No need to get your hands dirty when we have one of the world’s greatest sorcerers on our side.”

“As you wish,” Bikker said. Though it still rankled him. Not because he thought Hazoth wouldn’t do it. Because he had intended to give Malden-whom he had actually come to respect, after a fashion-a clean death. He could only imagine the particulars, but he was sure that what Hazoth did to the thief would be downright gruesome in comparison.