Den of thieves

Chapter Fifty-Five

There was nothing Croy wanted more than to just lie down on the cobbles and rest a moment. His body was wracked with pain and he was still bleeding from the wound in his back. Yet he knew it would be only moments before the watch found him there-he had hardly covered his tracks on the way. He rolled onto his side and put a hand down on the cobbles. His strength was faltering and he could barely sit up.

The wound in his back must be deep. He could not afford to lose any more blood. His shortsword lay in the street next to his outflung hand. He grabbed it up and used it to cut off a wide swath of his cloak. This he tied around his back, as tight as he could bear. It might help, a little. Then again, it might be too late. He had already lost a great deal of blood. He had rarely felt so close to death before. Never had its chill embrace seemed more welcoming, more to be desired.

Yet there was that within him that refused to give up. As tempting as it might be to close his eyes and let slumber take him, his work was not yet done. Cythera and her mother remained enslaved. Hazoth still had the Burgrave’s crown. He had to get up. He had to move from this place. He could rest, he promised himself, but only once he found a safe place to lie down. Where that might be, he had little idea.

As long as he lived, though-as long as Cythera needed his help-he had to make the best of what strength he had. And that meant standing up.

He regained his feet. He did not know how he did it-the simple act of putting one foot under him, then the other, made his vision go black and his brain howl in protest until he could not think. His muscles were trained to keep going, though, no matter what occurred. They got him upright and walking.

He struggled with the remains of his tattered cloak, managing to pull it over the hilts of his swords so they didn’t show. Down here, armed citizens were rare, and the swords would draw exactly the kind of attention he wanted to avoid. Not that he saw anyone about-or much of anything at all, really.

The air was thick with smoke and fumes, unhealthy vapors rising from the rendering vats in the tanner’s yard. Down the street a great pillar of ash and sparks rose from an iron foundry. The Smoke was shrouded in a poisonous miasma at all times-on an overcast day like this its air was as thick as porridge. This foul air and its characteristic stench would flow downhill, into the district of poverty and crime called the Stink. It was the fumes that gave the Stink its name. He headed down a long street with no doors or windows, only blank walls like a great chute. At its end was an open yard where Croy saw two men in a ropewalk, walking backward as they braided together stout cords into rope. One made a joke and the other laughed boisterously. As he staggered past they turned to stare at him. One called out, but Croy couldn’t understand what he said-the blood was pounding too loud in his ears.

He passed a cooperage where workers scorched the insides of barrels by swishing spirits of wine around inside them and then setting them alight. Red fireballs leapt from the mouth of each barrel as the lighter ducked down out of the way.

Next door was a brewery, the air around it thick with the smell of fermenting hops and steam off the great malting kettles. Croy started belching as he passed through a thick cloud of vapor. For a moment he could see nothing, the acrid cloud making his eyes water.

When he stumbled out of the cloud, someone put their arm around his shoulders.

“Careful now, friend! I mean you no harm,” the stranger cooed as Croy reeled away and tried to draw his shortsword.

He let his hand fall back. “I know you- urk — not,” Croy said.

“Ah, but I’m your best friend in the world, aren’t I? A fellow like you needs a good friend at a time like this. Here, lean against me, I’m solid enough.”

The stranger was a fattish man in a tight jerkin and leather breeches. His eyes were set close together and he had very little in the way of a chin. He was certainly no watchman, nor a palace guard. He had a belt knife but no other visible weapons.

“Don’t I have an honest face? Ha ha,” the man laughed. “Come with me now, we’ll see you safe and warm in a moment. I know a little place right around the corner.”

He thinks me drunk, Croy thought. “What kind of place?”

“A sort of temple,” the stranger told him. “A little shrine, for the right sort of devotee. Ha ha. It’s just up here.”

Had he been feeling stronger, Croy might have shaken the man off. He knew what game was being played out here. He lacked the strength to walk away, though. As it was, he had to lean hard on the stranger, but they managed to turn the corner. He had fully expected the man to lead him into an alleyway and there try to slit his throat, but it seemed this little temple was a real place: a tavern, where workers just coming off their shifts were spending the little pay they’d earned that day. It had an open storefront where an alewife poured ladles of watered wine for passersby. Behind her Croy could see a roaring fire and a crowded common room.

It would be good to get out of the mist and dry off, he thought. And perhaps a drink would bolster his flagging body. The laughing stranger hurried him inside and made a hand sign at the taverner, who leaned on a second bar inside. “Here, give me a coin, will you? An offering to the god of the house, call it. Ha ha.”

Croy drew a coin from his purse and too late saw that it was silver. It was already in the stranger’s hand. “Ooh, pretty, hark the way it shines, hmm? This’ll do nicely, ha ha. Come, let us find a place to sit, oh, it’s quite crowded out here, isn’t it?”

“Private room,” Croy rasped. “I need to-sit down.”

“Sure you do. Long day’s work for men like us, hmm? This way, this way, mind that fellow’s feet, he’s a real rough customer, wouldn’t want to start anything, ha ha, here, here, no, over here, through the door, that’s right. Here’s a bench for you, and a little table. And, ah! Here comes the priest himself to perform the mass.”

“Stow that nonsense, Tyron,” the taverner said, backing through the door with a tray in his hands. He set an earthenware bottle of distilled spirit and two goblets on the table, but poured into only one of them. “He’s probably so far gone he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.” He scratched his eyebrow with one filthy nail, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. The stranger-Tyron-nodded discreetly. So the taverner was in on the scheme, Croy realized.

Croy leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sitting down was helping, he thought. He hadn’t realized how taxing just walking through bad air could be. A little strength trickled back into his arms.

“A bit of this will have you back on your feet, ha ha,” Tyron said, and pushed the full goblet toward him. Croy made a show of reaching for it, then knocked it over clumsily so its contents spilled across the table. The liquor had the viscous consistency and milky color of blisswine. Even if it wasn’t adulterated with some drug-and Croy was certain it was-it would have put him to sleep before he finished the generous portion. “Oh, clumsy, and that stuff’s expensive, ha ha,” Tyron japed, “lucky for me it’s not my coin. Here, lean back, that’s right. Get comfortable. There’s no place for you to be, nothing needs doing. Let me loosen your cloak for you, it’s catching at your neck.” Nimble fingers undid the clasp and the cloak fell away from Croy’s shoulders. “And here, this is too tight as well,” Tyron said, reaching toward Croy’s belt. Instead of opening the buckle, however, he began to pull at the strings of Croy’s purse.

Croy lunged forward and knocked Tyron to the floor. The villain wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way as Croy’s shortsword sprang from its scabbard and came around in a weak swing-all he could manage-that left its point gently touching Tyron’s throat.

“Thief,” Croy said. “You thought I was drunk. You were going to-what’s the word-roll me. Weren’t you? Take my money and leave me unconscious in an alley.”

“No, friend, you have me all wrong, ha ha,” Tyron said, his eyes very bright.

“Don’t lie,” Croy said, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch. It brought the point of his shortsword that much closer to the man’s jugular vein.

“Ha ha, now don’t be so hasty, milord,” Tyron said, his eyes roaming around the room. “There’s plenty of fellows outside that door who know me. And none who know you from the Lady’s archpriest, do they?”

“I can cut your throat before you can call for help,” Croy pointed out. “Then I can-I can walk… walk out of here, and none the wiser.”

“They know the score,” Tyron said. He wasn’t laughing now. “If you leave here without my arm around your shoulders, they’ll know something’s gone wrong. They’ll stop you before you reach the street.”

“That,” Croy managed to growl, “will be of little comfort to you, as you’ll be dead back here before I open the door.”

“All right. All right. Take your ease,” Tyron pleaded. “Tell me what you want of me, and I’ll do it. I swear. Just take that cutter away from my throat.”

A service. The man would perform a service, in exchange for his life. It was like the old stories. Like the tales of demons bound to grant wishes. But what did he wish for at this moment? What could possibly help him? He was lost in the Smoke, away from all friends and aid. Away from anyone who could ensure his safety. Nor could he count on his friends anymore. The rich friend who he had been staying with-the fellow who was kind enough to loan his horse-would surely turn his back on him now. Before, Croy had been a figure of fascination, a symbol of the man’s generosity. Now he was a wanted criminal. No, even if his friend would take him in, Croy knew he would be doing him a great disservice by going back there. He thought of Murd-lin, the dwarf envoy. Murdlin had saved him from the gallows once. But he’d also said their account was square, that he had repaid Croy in full. Dwarves never forgot a debt-but they never gave anything on credit either.

Perhaps, though-perhaps he could call not on a friend but on an acquaintance. Someone with whom he shared the slenderest of links, but a link nonetheless. There was one man in the Stink, one man who cared for Cythera, just as he did. One thief. Tyron might even know him-or at least how to reach him.

“You like silver, don’t you? Don’t you?” Croy demanded.

“Oh, aye, and who doesn’t?” Tyron wheedled.

“Do me a service, and earn it, then. I have a message to send. And I think you might know how to deliver it.”