Den of thieves

Chapter Forty-Five

It was not difficult to get into the Burgrave’s palace, if you did so in the middle of the day and you appeared to have business there. The denizens of the palace consumed vast quantities of food, drink, firewood, and other commodities every day. Carts came in and out through the massive iron gates in the wall of Castle Hill almost constantly. Laborers carrying sacks of flour, rashers of bacon, or hogsheads of lamp oil passed into the palace proper through an entrance in the back, nearest to the kitchens. On this day they had to line up and each wait their turn, as the courtyard was full already with workmen, masons, architects, and stone-breakers overseeing the careful demolition of what remained of the tower. It was a great chaos of people dressed in every imaginable hue and style.

When Croy entered, walking alongside a cart full of grain, he was still stopped by a guard at the gate, but not because he’d been recognized. The harried guard did no more than to assure himself that Croy carried no weapons before sending him through. Though Croy was wanted for escaping the gallows, the guard didn’t even glance at his face.

“You’re growing complacent, Anselm,” Croy chuckled as he headed across the courtyard toward the palace. There were no archers up on the castle walls, and what few watchmen he saw were arguing with the masons atop the ruins of the tower. The masons had set up a huge triangular crane that could lift away the chunks of broken stone, but the watchmen seemed to think they would damage the palace in the process. The masons argued they knew what they were doing and should be left to their work. Meanwhile their laborers stood around idle, leaning on picks and shovels or sharing a jug of wine. A group of apprentices, boys no older than ten, had started kicking a ball around the courtyard while they waited for the argument to finish so they could start work again. Croy took advantage of the chaos, slipped in through the back of the palace and walked right past the castellan. The old dotard was too busy counting bushel baskets full of candles to pay any mind.

Beyond the storerooms lay the servants’ quarters, narrow little rooms smaller than the cell Croy had been given at the gaol. Because it was the middle of the day, these chambers were all deserted-the servants were at their work, of course. Croy climbed a spiral staircase at the end of the hall and came out on the second floor, near the Burgrave’s chambers. Vry’s office was nearby, in case the Burgrave should demand his presence on a moment’s notice.

There was a guard at the top of the stairs. Croy was glad in a way to see that-he didn’t like to think of such important people being so vulnerable. The guard was dressed in leather jack with iron plates on his shoulders and down his forearms, and he wore a wide-brimmed kettle helmet. Because it was a warm day-Ladymas always brought sunny weather-the guard had removed the padded hood he should have worn under such a helmet. He lowered his halberd across the exit from the stairs and bade Croy to hold. “What’s your business?” he asked.

“I have a message for the bailiff,” Croy said, trying to sound frightened. A real messenger would be staring at the blade of the halberd, he thought, so he turned his head as if he were looking at it. His eyes, though, never left sight of the guard’s hands.

“Give it here, and I’ll see he gets it.”

“Oh, you want it?” Croy asked. “Very well.” He brought out the sap he’d been hiding under his cloak and smacked the guard across the temple. The kettle helmet rang like a bell and the guard grimaced as his eyes fluttered closed. Croy barely managed to catch him before he collapsed to the floor.

Then Croy stopped perfectly still, crouched on the top riser of the stairs with the guard in his arms, and listened. The ringing helmet had made far more noise than he’d liked, and he needed to know if anyone had heard him.

He could hear the workmen outside grumbling about having to wait to offload their wares. He could hear horse hooves clopping on the flagstones of the courtyard. He could hear a guard atop the wall, hailing his fellow across the way, checking that all was well. He did not hear what he’d feared: no cry of alarm, no voice raised inside the palace to ask what that sound was. No one calling for the unconscious guard, to ask if something was the matter.

Very good. Getting the guard back down the stairs was not easy, but Croy had good muscle in his arms and a strong back. He shoved the guard into a verger’s room, then stripped him of his armor and tied his hands together behind his back. With a gag in the guard’s mouth, he thought he would be safe awhile. He threw his own cloak over the supine form of the guard for modesty’s sake, then pulled on the leather jack and put the helmet on his own head. He found the padded hood on the man’s belt and drew that on as well. It hid both his blond hair and his square chin.

Then he headed back to the second floor and straight to the door of Anselm Vry’s office. He raised the knuckles of one hand to knock, intending to announce that there was a message from the moothall and a reply was expected. That would get Vry to open the door with no fuss.

Yet just before he knocked he stopped and listened a moment-and heard a conversation beyond the door that grasped his attention.

“You must put it on. People expect to see you wearing the robe.” That was the voice of Anselm Vry, certainly.

Croy didn’t recognize the other voice. It was that of a grown man, but there was a childlike petulance to it-and at the same time a sort of hollowness, as if the owner of the voice was gravely ill, or, for that matter, ghostly.

“You can’t make me. You can’t make me do anything. I’m free of it!”

“If you won’t wear the robe,” Vry said, sounding exasperated, “you can’t appear in public at all. I’ll have you locked up in your room. And then we’ll see how free you are.”

“I’m free. I’m free! Every night, when they took it away-every night I dreamed. I dreamed of this! And in the morning when they brought it to me again, I wept. You won’t-you won’t bring it back, will you? Promise!”

“I promise. Now put on the robe. And stop sniveling. It doesn’t befit you. After Ladymas things will be different, just dream of that.”

Enough. Croy had never been a keyhole-listener before. He did not relish gossip, or knowing other people’s secrets. He knocked and announced himself firmly. “Message for you, your honor. From the moothall.”

“Damnation-what do the shopkeepers want with me now?” Vry said behind the door. Croy heard footsteps approaching and he stepped back to allow the door to open. Vry poked his head out and extended one long-fingered hand. “Give it here, and be gone,” he said.

Croy grabbed the hand and hauled the bailiff out into the hallway. Vry started to shout for his guards, but Croy was quick enough to get an arm around his throat and hold him still.

“You’ve come… to murder me, Croy? It doesn’t… seem your style,” Vry managed to gasp out as Croy put pressure on his windpipe.

“I saw no other way to gain audience with you, Anselm. No, I’m here for exactly the reason I said, to deliver a message-though not from the masters of the guilds. Will you listen to me if I release you? I have vital information you require.”

“I’ll listen,” Vry choked. Croy let him go. “I’ll listen, then I’ll have you arrested. I don’t know how you managed to get in here, and I can only wonder how you expect to get back out with your head attached to your neck. What message could be so important that you would risk your life for it?”

“The sorcerer Hazoth has the Burgrave’s crown,” Croy said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Croy shook his head. “You needn’t pretend. I know everything. And now so do you. The crown is safe, sealed in a leaden coffer in Hazoth’s sanctum. What he wants with it I have no idea. Now, I must be going.”

“You’re right,” Vry told him. “This is vital information. I don’t suppose you’d tell me how you came by it.”

“I’m bound to secrecy,” Croy said.

“Of course, of course.” Vry nodded in understanding. “Hazoth,” he said. He tapped his upper lip. “Can you get the crown away from him, d’you think?”

“By myself? No. But you can marshal troops enough to wrest it from him, certainly?”

“I suppose I can. I owe you my thanks, Croy.” Vry clapped him on the shoulder. “I only wish I could pay you back for this debt. But you know that the Burgrave’s word is law, and he has ordered your death. What can I do for you, that will not counter his decision? It’s not in my power to pardon you, much as I’d like to.”

Croy clutched his friend by the forearm. “Just give me a head start. Don’t call your guards for five minutes. That will be enough. Oh, and Anselm?”

“Yes?” the bailiff asked.

“You really should take better note of who comes and goes through your gates.” Croy smiled broadly and gave the bailiff a deep bow. “I still serve the Burgrave,” he said. “My duty was clear.”

And yet-the words tasted wrong in Croy’s mouth. For in truth it was not for the Burgrave he’d come to the palace. Cythera had told him all about the theft of the crown, and together they’d made this plan. She could not leave Hazoth’s service as long as he held her mother prisoner-and while he lived, he would never release her. Croy knew he could not destroy the sorcerer on his own. No matter how strong his arm, no matter how puissant Ghostcutter’s blade, he could not match Hazoth’s magic.

Yet if it were to come to light that Hazoth was behind the plot to embarrass the Burgrave, well… perhaps the wheels of justice could turn in the right direction, just this one time. Anselm Vry would bring every guard and watchman in the city down on Hazoth’s house, and they would see just how strong his magic was then.