Den of thieves

Chapter Fifty-Six

“It’s just as I said, ha ha,” Tyron told them. “Look, he’s weak as a kitten. Three against one, those are fine odds. We cut his throat while he’s sleeping, that makes even better sense. Then we take his silver and dump the body in the Skrait, yes? It’ll be out in the ocean to be nibbled by the fishes before anyone even knows he’s gone.”

Malden shot a glance sideways at Kemper. The intangible sharper kept his face as still as stone, no doubt thinking exactly what he was thinking.

“Keep your voice down,” Malden whispered. “If he wakes it’ll take more than us to put him to sleep again.”

“It don’t take three men t’slit some sleepin’ bugger’s neckpipe,” Kemper advised in even lower tones.

“You can’t cut me out of this. I know too much, ha ha,” Tyron said. “I’ve seen his face. A man of quality like that. A knight, or better, he is. But wounded like this, and so far from Castle Hill. There must be someone-ha ha-looking for him. But not someone, I wager, he wants to be found by. Else why would he have sent for the likes of you two? He’s trouble, this one. You think the watch won’t want to hear about this?”

On the floor, Sir Croy rolled over on his side with a moan. The hilts of his two swords stuck up at bad angles from his back. Sweat sheened his face and blood stained his clothes. He wasn’t going to wake anytime soon.

“I didn’t have to cut you in at all,” Tyron went on. “I could have just waited till he slept, then taken everything for myself. We do this together, and then maybe you’ll speak the right word in the right ear. Maybe I find myself in a new position, ha ha.”

Malden knew what the man meant-his measure was already taken. Before agreeing to come with Tyron into the Smoke, he had learned the man’s whole life story.

Tyron was not one of Cutbill’s thieves. He was not really a thief at all, at least not all the time. Mostly he labored at a redsmith’s, working brass into latten with a cloth-covered hammer. It was not pleasant work and it paid barely anything, so Tyron was always happy to supplement his income with a quick bit of thuggery. Rolling drunks, short change confidence games, picking pockets when he could get away with it-any quick and dirty scheme to make an extra bit of coin. He was smart enough to have an arrangement with the tavern’s owner. That showed organizational skills-which had promise. He was just the sort of fellow Cutbill might take on as an apprentice, though it was unlikely he’d ever rise much higher. Tyron only knew he wanted the protection that Cutbill’s guild could bring him, and that alone had made him actually carry out Croy’s bidding.

When Croy had asked Tyron to fetch Malden, Tyron knew enough to contact one of Cutbill’s agents. It might have gone no further, though, had Malden not been at Cutbill’s lair at the time, conferring with Slag the dwarf. He and Kemper had come at once, with Tyron leading them. No more than two hours had passed since Croy tasked Tyron with his message.

Had it taken any longer, Croy might have been dead before they arrived.

Malden knelt down next to the knight, who was moaning softly now. The swordsman’s face was fish-belly white. He must have lost a great deal of blood. It would be child’s play to kill him now, but Malden had something else in mind. He carefully opened Croy’s purse. He had a lighter touch that Tyron, though most likely it didn’t matter. Croy was feeling nothing but pain.

“Here,” Malden said, taking out a mixed handful of silver and copper coins. Not a farthing in the bunch. He picked out ninepence and tossed them to Tyron. “There’s plenty more here, if you’ll do one more errand. Find me a physick. A discreet physick. Bring him here and you can have half this purse. Then you’re done-you leave and tell no one about this. There must be a dozen silver galleons here. Not bad for a half night’s work, is it? Cross me, however, and I’ll send my associate after you.”

“Him?” Tyron said. “A beggarly card cheat? Why should I fear-”

Kemper lunged at the thug and drove both hands deep into Tyron’s chest. Tyron opened his mouth to scream and a stream of icy vapor issued from his mouth.

“Are we agreed?” Malden asked.

They most certainly were.

Tyron returned shortly, leading a man in a robe and a long conical paper mask. Malden peered through the holes in the mask and saw bleary eyes staring back. He paid Tyron and sent him on his way, with a promise to speak well of him to Cutbill.

“You’re a trained physick?” Malden asked when Tyron was gone and he could speak plainly with the healer.

“I am.” The man removed his mask-meant to protect him from the disease-ridden vapors of the Smoke-and rubbed at his face. He wore a pomander at his belt and stank of flowers and garlic. “I’m a doctor of physick, if you would know. Trained up at the university, under doctors Jacinth and Detwiler, and-”

“Good enough,” Kemper said. “But can ye keep yer mouth shut?”

The physick looked from Kemper back to Malden. “I’m usually employed by the workshops in this area. They pay me well to look after men hurt on the job. My employers prefer not to have suits of law brought against them-even in this place there are laws against negligence. So yes, I can be kept quiet. For the right price. Is this the man I’m to treat?” he asked, pointing at Croy.

“D’ye see anyone else who needs ye?” Kemper demanded.

“You might have moved him to a bed, if you cared about his health,” the physick replied. “For all I know you’re willing to let him die.” He dragged Croy up to a sitting position, then pried the knight’s mouth open to look at his tongue. He felt for Croy’s pulses and put an ear to his chest to listen to his wind. “Has he moved his bowels since he came here? Or passed any water?”

“Ye want to see his piss?” Kemper asked. “What kind o’ sick fella are ye?”

The physick clucked his tongue. “I don’t expect that your sort knows anything of medicine, nor shall I explain myself in detail. But the urine of a man is a great treasury of secrets, to those who know how to read it. I might find traces of extravagant humors in it. There might be blood in it, which would be a very bad sign indeed.”

“Tell ye what, buy me a coupla drinks, I’ll give ye all the urine ye can stomach,” Kemper said with a cackle.

The physick looked like he might jump up and leave on the moment. Malden rushed forward to put a hand on the man’s arm. “Forgive him. He’s little more than a peasant. Sure a man as worldly and learned as yourself can rise above such petty taunting?”

“I assure you, my interest in his urine is purely professional!”

“Of course it is,” Malden said, “and professionals,” he added, taking coins from his purse, “are paid for their services.”

It was enough to make the physick return to his labors.

While he worked, Malden stepped aside with Kemper and spoke quietly. “You don’t care for medicos, hmm?”

“Oh, was I rude?” Kemper said with mock shame. “Nah, lad, I ne’er liked ’em, e’en back when I were reg’lar flesh. ’Specially not then. They’re more like t’kill ye than heal ye, if ye’ve anythin’ worse’n a bruise on yer li’l finger.”

Malden shrugged. “True, but if we do nothing, Croy will die. I at least want a chance to talk to him before that. He had something to say to me, and I can’t afford not to hear it right now. We only have five more days before… before Ladymas. Croy is connected to what we’re doing, somehow. I’d like to know how.”

“Aye,” Kemper said, looking almost contrite. “Yer in the right. Just don’t let that butcher near me.”

Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn’t festered yet. I’ve bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He’ll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he’ll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he’s hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”

“Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.

“You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he’s to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days-well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”

He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy’s silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people’s money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”

“It is. Though let me warn you-I’m not the only one who’s going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.

“Did you hear that, Croy? You’re an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight’s foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”

Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.