Den of thieves

Chapter Forty-Six

It was not Anselm Vry who next approached Hazoth’s villa, however.

It was Malden.

He had spent most of the day hiding in the bushes of the Parkwall Common, crouching like a footpad without even a jug of brandy to keep him company. The last thing he wanted after his night carousing with Kemper was more liquor.

It was easy enough to stay still. Every time he moved he felt like his brains sloshed back and forth in his skull. He felt weak and queasy. He was not sure if that was his hangover or only fear.

The gate of Hazoth’s villa opened and Bikker came striding out. This was what Malden had been waiting for. The bearded swordsman clanked as he walked-Malden could hear him all the way across the common-and he scratched at one armpit as he headed toward Old Fish Street, the road that led to the wharves on the river Skrait. Malden had no way of knowing what his business there might be, but he didn’t care. As long as Bikker did not return for an hour or more.

When Bikker was well out of sight, Malden rose painfully to a standing posture and then walked across the green common, in full view of Hazoth’s house. He wanted very badly to turn around and run, or at least to approach in a less conspicuous manner-there were trees all along one edge of the common that would hide him well.

He did not turn away.

At the gate, Hazoth’s guards were waiting for him. They stood well inside the fence, and Malden knew from watching them a long time that they would be inside the radius of the spell that protected the place. He offered them no threat and they made no move to challenge him. They leaned on their polearms and just watched him come closer, daring him with their eyes to step through the gate.

There were six of them visible. They wore chain mail and surcoats in the colors of Hazoth’s livery: black and scarlet. One of them turned his head and spat as Malden stepped up to the gate.

There was no turning back once he was through.

He stepped over the threshold.

He could perhaps be forgiven for closing his eyes as he took that fateful step. Yet nothing happened-at first. The forecourt of the villa was covered in crushed gravel, with here and there a dandelion or a sprig of clover poking up through the rocks. The gravel crunched under Malden’s leather shoes. He took another step.

And that was when the spell took him. He felt as if he had run at full speed directly into a brick wall. His body tensed at the impact and his bones thrummed, though he could see no barrier before him. It felt like ghostly hands passed over his face and chest, and then something gripped him around the waist.

One of the guards laughed.

Malden did not cry out-he had no breath in his lungs-as the invisible force lifted him bodily off the ground. The grip around his waist and chest held him immobile as invisible fingers rifled through his purse and inside his tunic, as his cloak was lifted and checked for concealed weapons. He had been smart enough to leave his bodkin at home, but the buckle of his belt and the handful of copper coins in his purse grew searing hot for a moment, until he thought they would burn through his clothes. As quickly as it had come, however, that phantom heat dissipated.

The invisible hands lowered him to the ground again-but held him still.

“Good morrow to you,” Malden managed to croak out. He caught the eye of one of the guards. “Will you let me speak?”

The guard came over and jabbed him in the chest with the butt of his pikestaff. Hard enough to rattle his sternum. “What business have you here, dog?”

Malden licked his lips. His mouth was still very dry from the night before. “I have a message for Hazoth. One he desperately needs to hear.”

The guard smiled broadly. “Tell it to me, and perhaps we’ll let you go.”

Malden nodded agreeably. “Would that I could. I’m afraid it must be communicated directly to the sorcerer, however. It is information of a… delicate nature, and best not spoken aloud where unwanted listeners might hear.”

The guard scowled. Yet he walked over to one of his fellows and conferred with him a while. Malden could do naught but wait-the invisible wall still held him pinned. He could not so much as scratch an itch.

The second guard ran into the house. He was gone quite a while. The others moved closer to the gate, weapons at the ready in case Malden had some charm that would free him from the invisible wall.

Not very clever of them, he thought. They should have been watching the fence, looking for some armed force approached from another direction. His own approach could have just been a diversion to hide the advance of a more dangerous force. The fact that he, who had no training in security, could see as much told him something. These were not soldiers, then, but only bravos hired to look menacing, not to effectively guard the villa. Good to know.

Not that he could make use of that information if the invisible guardian continued to hold him. It seemed he waited forever, exposed under the sun, unable to move. For a span nothing happened. Eventually, though, the guard returned from the house. He rushed over to his post as if nothing had happened, and Malden wondered if he should be left there, suspended in nothing, until he died of thirst.

But then Cythera stepped out of the doorway.

The hood of her velvet cloak was up, hiding her face in shadows. Her hands were bare, though, and seeing tattooed coils of ivy twisting around her fingers, Malden knew it was her.

She approached him directly, stopping five feet away. He supposed that spot must mark where the barrier ended on the inside-another useful thing to know.

“I am very glad to see you,” he said, smiling down upon her. “I’d bow to you, as you deserve, but as you can see, I’m a bit indisposed. If you’d be kind enough to let me down I’d be most obliged.”

“You’re a fool,” she said. “You’ll die here.”

“I’m desperate,” he told her. “If not here, I’ll die elsewhere, and just as certain.”

She gave him a look of uncertainty. A questioning look. As if she could not believe he had come here and risked so much. He smiled in return, hiding his true fear. A part of him was woefully glad to see her again, and not just because she was the only one who could get him out of the barrier.

“As you wish,” Cythera said.

She lifted her hands in a complicated gesture, her fingers tucked in or stretched outward in weird contortions. She spoke a word that Malden could not hear clearly, even at so close a distance.

The air flexed with magic and he dropped to the ground, falling on his knees and scraping his hands on the gravel. The magic wall was gone. “I offered to bow, and now you see me kneel. You have my thanks, lady.”

Cythera did not offer to help him up. Instead she turned on her heel and walked back toward the house. The guards weren’t even looking at Malden. He staggered to his feet and then raced after her, through the massive stone doors and into the coolth of a dim portico.